Elena didn't speak immediately. For a brief moment, she simply stood there, her gaze fixed on Damian with a steadiness that felt almost unsettling, as though the scene from minutes ago—her on the floor, the tension between us—had never happened at all.
It was the kind of composure she wore so effortlessly, so convincingly, that it made everything feel staged, controlled in a way that irritated me more than I cared to admit.
Then, slowly, she smiled.
It was that same polished expression I had come to recognize too well, calm, always calm and completely unreadable.
"Mr. Laurent, I presume?" she said, her voice smooth as she stepped forward. "Welcome. I've been expecting you."
Something in my chest tightened at the ease with which she carried herself, at how quickly she could shift, as if none of it mattered.
Of course she could switch like that.
