She didn’t answer.
That was enough answer.
I took a step forward, letting my heels click against the polished floor with deliberate slowness. Every eye in the room turned to me, but I only saw her. I leaned in, close enough to breathe the rosewood perfume on her skin—fake, like everything else about her, and whispered, “I’m opening your chapter soon.”
For a single heartbeat, her mask cracked.
Then, with the suddenness of a viper, her hand sliced the air toward my cheek.
But I caught it. I caught her hand.
My fingers curled around her wrist, my grip tight and unforgiving. The bones beneath her skin felt bird-fragile in my hold, and I yanked her arm downward with such force that her whole body staggered.
“You dare not lay your filthy hands on me,” I growled, my voice a whisper, but on
