Willow didn't knock.
The door burst open so sharply that Zane looked up from his screen before he even processed the sound.
She stood framed in the doorway — shoulders squared, chin lifted, her silhouette carved sharp against the cold glass behind her.
No smile.
No greeting.
Just the sharp, deliberate rhythm of her heels against the marble as she crossed the room — punctuation marks she'd been saving for this exact moment.
The air shifted with her.
Even the hum of the AC seemed to hold its breath.
The silence that followed had weight.
She stopped just short of his desk, eyes fixed on him, dark and gleaming with a fury that didn't flare — it burned cold.
"You had no right," she said finally, her voice calm and surgical, every syllable landing like a measured cut.
Zane blinked once, his composure barely cracking. "To what?"
"Don't play dumb, Zane." Her voice sharpened, steady and slicing. "You told Victor my schedule was full."
