I set the last cup down with a deliberate click.
“Persephone.”
My voice came out quiet.
Too quiet.
“You know what this means.”
She didn’t answer. Not with words. Just that stillness—that glaring, infuriating silence that made me want to shatter every plate in this house just to make her look at me.
“Your little friend can’t come here anymore.”
Still nothing.
Just the sound of her breath. Too fast. Too shallow.
I turned.
Faced her fully.
“You wore that dress like a challenge.”
She flinched.
Just a flicker.
Just enough.
I stepped forward, slow and steady—a god in the mood for wrath. “Look at you,” I murmured, heat curling beneath each syllable. “Draped in silk and defiance.”
That was what did it.
She looked up.
Met my gaze.
And there it was—the spark and the war. The fear. The fury. The need. The hate.
All tangled in those eyes like vines choking out the sun.
Mine, I thought. Even when you want to burn me alive, you’re mine.
This wasn’t about Cliff.
This wasn’t about the dress.
This was about us.
The war she thought she could win.
The game she thought she wasn’t playing.
“Tell me,” I said softly, stepping into her space, “did you want him to see you like this?”
Her lips parted. No sound.
I smiled.
