Cyrus blinked once. Just once. But that single blink carried the weight of a man struck by a divine blow.
His entire face was red—redder than the embers in the hearth, redder than any sunset he had ever seen. Honestly, if anyone had compared him to a tomato right then, the tomato would have lost.
And then Isabella—sweet, reckless Isabella—delivered the final strike.
She gave him her signature angelic smile, that infuriatingly innocent one, lips curved soft and sweet, her hands clasped neatly behind her back as if she hadn't just shattered his composure into a thousand pieces. She swayed gently from side to side, her skirts catching the faint breeze, as though she were humming to herself.
"Have a good night," she said in the sweetest tone imaginable—so pure, so kind, so gentle—that his chest clenched. And then, without waiting for a reply, she hopped happily off toward her bed.
Cyrus stood there frozen, like some awkward statue carved by a drunk sculptor.
