Zayne’s POV
The dining room smells like roasted coffee beans, butter, and citrus polish from the antique table my mother insists on having cleaned twice a day.
I sit at the far end of the table, fingers loosely wrapped around a coffee cup that has long gone cold. Conversations blur around me, forks scraping porcelain, chairs shifting, Isabella stealing glances from time to time, but none of it settles properly in my chest.
My eyes keep drifting toward the staircase. Against my better judgment. Against my pride. Against the very clear, very brutal words Isla left me with last night.
I need time.
Time is a dangerous thing when you’re in love with someone who looks at you like you’ve shattered something sacred.
I roll the coffee cup slowly between my palms, pretending the warmth is sti
