There was a beat of silence.
Then Ava, ever so slowly, blinked—once. Twice.
"…Right," she said, voice strained, as though choosing civility with the effort of a martyr clenching her teeth through a sermon. "Very romantic. Just the right amount of homicidal foreplay every marriage needs."
She pivoted on her heel and stormed toward the mini bar tucked tastefully into the corner of the room, muttering, "I should've married that Singaporean diplomat with the six cats and early-onset knee problems. He at least offered me imported truffle jam and emotional stability."
Zach watched her. Silently. Calmly. Like an assassin watching a bomb defuse itself in slow motion.
She threw open the bar cabinet and immediately poured herself a measure of something amber and judgmental.
"Don't even think about stopping me," she warned him, back still turned. "I'm not drinking to forget—I'm drinking to fortify. If we're continuing this conversation, I'll need moral reinforcement in liquid form."
