As the hours dragged on in the most excruciating way possible, time itself seemed to move out of spite.
Drogo didn't need to look at the clock to know when it happened.
The moment the hour hand kissed five, Karen's boots struck the floor in sharp, angry strides, her footsteps echoing from the corner she had claimed all afternoon straight to the exit. The door was yanked open, then slammed shut with enough force to make the walls flinch.
Silence followed.
Drogo finally glanced at the clock.
5:00 p.m.
He exhaled, a low sound that curled into a quiet chuckle. Not amused, but satisfied. There was something fulfilling about small victories, even petty ones. Holding his ground, maintaining a line, and proving—if only to himself—that there were still boundaries she couldn't bulldoze through with her spontaneity.
Drogo returned to his paperwork, pen gliding steadily, as if nothing at all had happened.
• • •
Karen walked home.
If it could even be called a walk.
