The moment the group of men stepped out and the door clicked shut behind them, the tension snapped.
Amelia let out a long, unsteady breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
Her shoulders sagged, the strength she had been forcing into her posture dissolving all at once.
Lara didn't say anything—she simply guided her away, a steady hand at her arm, leading her toward the lounge inside the Isla Pavilion.
The space was modest compared to the grandeur of restaurants in the city—muted lighting, polished wood, and a single plush sofa that seemed to promise rest.
The moment Amelia reached it, she sank down helplessly, as if her body had finally claimed what it had been denied for hours.
"You did well, Amelia."
Lara's voice was light—warm and gentle, like a breeze that lingered after a passing storm.
Amelia let out a soft, humorless laugh, her head sinking back against the cushion as if even holding it up had become a burden.
"I don't think so…"
