The door creaks, hinges whining against the quiet night, and it's not Grayson's lazy drawl that greets them—it's Daphne's voice.
She steps out, framed by the dim hallway lights like some unwilling angel descending into a pit of wolves. Her caramel hair catches the yellow glow, her arms crossed over her chest. Even the way she leans against the door screams Bellamy restraint. That computed grace their father loves so much… the kind that hides disgust beneath diplomacy.
"Has anyone seen Lira?" she asks, eyes sweeping the group with bored disdain, like they are already wasting her time.
Morgan's lips twitch. Of course. The name alone is a spark.
Lira. His patience for that name is already stretched thin tonight. He takes that as his cue to leave.
He doesn't even respond or glance her way. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, and without a word, he turns on his heel and stalks toward the door she just vacated.
