I knew that whatever I said wouldn't matter—not when Nico had already made his stance clear without even needing to raise his voice.
So I didn't argue. I didn't beg. I didn't even sigh.
I simply got up from the stool, abandoning my half-full glass of wine like it no longer belonged to me, and walked toward the door. The cool marble floor grounded me with every step, steadying the frustration building in my chest. When I pulled the door open, the servant was already there, standing stiffly with the clothes I had requested neatly folded over his arm.
I took them without a word, my fingers brushing against the crisp fabric, then turned on my heel and headed straight for the bathroom.
I could feel Nico's gaze on me—heavy, unmoving, deliberate—but I ignored it.
Completely.
