The ride home was a silence made of glass.
Zane hadn't spoken since they left the rooftop. He'd simply opened the car door for her, waited while she slid into the passenger seat, and driven off into the night—calm, precise, untouchable.
Willow sat angled toward the window, watching the city unfurl in fractured reflections. The streetlights streaked across her face like passing ghosts—fragments of laughter, betrayal, and the fire that still smoldered under her skin.
Her pulse hadn't settled since the kiss.
Not because of guilt—there was none. She knew why she'd done it, and she would do it again if it meant splintering Miles's carefully polished world.
But the aftermath… that, she hadn't planned for.
The kiss hadn't gone the way she imagined.
In her mind, it had been an act of control. Cold. Exact.
A weapon dressed as intimacy.
But when her lips met Zane's, the world had tilted.
It wasn't her who'd faltered. It was him.
