He chuckled at the accusation.
"Do you hate me?"
She stared at him for long moments, her expression cycling through confusion, anger, and something she couldn't name.
"I don't even understand you, let alone know the reason to hate. You're... confusing."
The admission seemed to frustrate her even more. Men were supposed to be simple—driven by pride, lust, or power. But he defied every category she tried to place him in.
"So tell me," he said, his voice carrying that gentle insistence, "what do you want?"
Her jaw set with determination.
"I will never give up my dignity."
Looking at her, he chuckled, but there was something different in his expression now.
"You know what? I always thought you were an ambitious woman who, to be honest, could fall to any low."
Her body flinched as if he'd struck her, her heart thumping irregularly.
Why did his judgment matter?
Why did the thought of him seeing her as someone without dignity cause such a strange ache in her chest?
