The office remained unnaturally still after their argument, the tension not gone but settled into the walls like something that intended to stay.
Drogo sat behind his desk, his elbows resting lightly against the armrests of his chair, fingers steepled near his mouth as his mind refused to let the matter go.
He had dealt with arrogance before. He had dealt with manipulation, entitlement, emotional volatility, even calculated defiance. But Karen was not a category he could comfortably assign and close.
What kind of woman injures herself deliberately, not in a moment of emotional collapse, but as leverage?
Not as a cry for help, not as a breakdown, but as a strategy. The audacity of it irritated him, yet the precision unsettled him more. She had known exactly how far to go.
Not fatal or disabling, just enough to corner him morally and professionally. It was reckless, yes, but it was not chaotic. There had been intention behind it, and that intention bothered him.
Her pride was almost theatrical, her entitlement worn openly without apology. She challenged him with a kind of sharp intelligence that did not ask for permission, and her pettiness during the session had not been accidental.
She had pushed Annabelle deliberately, almost experimentally, as though testing the limits of both patient and therapist. It was insulting. It was irresponsible. And yet it had not been mindless.
Then there was the arm.
He had grabbed it in anger. He had felt the splint beneath his fingers and expected a reaction. A flinch. A tightening of breath. Something human and immediate.
There had been nothing.
That detail lingered in his thoughts more than he liked. Either her tolerance for pain was unusually high, or she had learned long ago to detach from sensation entirely. Neither possibility was comforting.
Across the room, Karen had settled onto the couch with the file he had given her earlier, which had been less an assignment and more a corrective measure.
She was supposed to be reviewing patient behavioral histories. Instead, the file rested half-open in her lap while her attention remained mostly on her phone, the screen light reflecting faintly against her expressionless face.
Every few seconds she would glance down at the pages, as if performing the act of diligence rather than engaging in it.
He observed her briefly, then looked away.
Noon approached gradually, sunlight shifting slightly across the floor. Drogo then checked the time, closed his laptop, and reached into his drawer to retrieve a compact, layered stainless steel lunch flask.
He set it on his desk and began unclasping each tier with quiet precision. As he lifted the lids, the aroma slowly spread through the room, rich and warm with spices, sautéed vegetables, and something that had clearly been simmered with patience.
Karen’s scrolling stopped.
She looked up.
Her gaze shifted from her phone to the containers now arranged neatly on his desk. New chapters come out on g.com first.
“Where did you buy it from?” she asked, her tone casual but her eyes attentive.
“Bold of you to assume I can’t cook,” he replied without looking at her, serving rice onto his plate before adding the stew.
She straightened slightly. “You cook? Why?”
He paused mid-motion and looked at her properly. “Why wouldn’t I?”
She considered that, then waved her hand dismissively. “I just never imagined you doing something so… domestic. Oh, never mind. Most commoners cook for themselves anyway.”
He rolled his eyes openly this time. “You manage to announce that you’re privileged and spoiled in the most effortless ways.”
She crossed her legs slowly, unfazed. “I think cooking is inefficient. If you can hire someone or order from a good place, why waste the time?”
He tasted his food before answering. “Because no one cooks to my satisfaction.”
She stared at him for a second, then let out a soft sound of disbelief. “That might be the most arrogant way anyone has ever admitted they’re a good cook.”
He did not smile. He simply continued serving, unbothered by her commentary.
For several minutes, the only sounds in the office were the faint clink of cutlery and the occasional rustle of paper as she pretended to resume reading.
However, her eyes drifted toward his desk more often than toward the file, and the scent of the food lingered persistently in the air between them.
Without announcing his intention, Drogo prepared a second plate while serving himself. When he finished arranging it, he stood, picked up the plate, and walked toward her with steady steps.
Karen looked up again, this time clearly surprised.
He placed the plate carefully on the small table in front of her.
She blinked. “What is this?”
He straightened to his full height, looking down at her with composed firmness. “Unlike your spoiled self, I believe in kindness. And I find it uncomfortable eating alone.”
Her lips parted as though she intended to respond with something sharp or dismissive, but he had already turned away, walking back to his desk without waiting for her reaction.
But just before he sat down, he paused and gazed over his shoulder. “And Ms. Benjamin?”
Karen responded in silence but stayed attentive.
Drogo sighed. “I apologize for saying you were weaponizing your damage earlier.”
Again, she didn’t answer — but she didn’t need to. Drogo simply looked away and sat down, resuming his meal.
He did not look up.
The plate remained in front of her, steam rising slowly, her silence between them now carrying something far more complicated than irritation. The source of this chapter is novelping.com.
Meanwhile…
Annabelle stood in front of her house longer than necessary, with her school bag still hanging from one shoulder. Her fingers hovered inches away from the doorknob as if the metal itself might reject her touch.
The curtains were drawn too tightly across the front windows. There was something in the stillness of the house that never felt like peace.
Annabelle gulped.
She stretched her hand forward; her fingers brushed the knob.
A sharp crash exploded from inside — glass shattering.
A man’s voice echoed from inside, thick with anger.
She flinched so violently she nearly stumbled back down the step, her heart slamming against her ribs. The shouting grew louder, layered now with the strained, breaking tone of a woman trying to speak over it. Then came the scream.
A high-pitched, fractured cry for help — just fear stripped bare.
Annabelle froze.
Her hand slowly withdrew to her side. Her breathing grew shallow as her shoulders curled inward automatically, her body reacting the way it had learned to react. To stay small. To stay silent…
Anything to stay out of the line of impact.
Another object shattered inside.
The woman’s voice cracked again, pleading this time.
Annabelle’s eyes filled, but not a drop fell. She had mastered that part long ago.
Instead, she took one step backward. Then another.
Her gaze remained fixed on the door as though it might suddenly open and drag her inside by force. The shouting intensified, words blurring into raw volume.
She turned away.
Then, with quiet urgency, she walked down the steps and away from the house, walking steadily with the same small, careful steps she used in hallways at school.
She did not look back.