The air was thick.

Swirling. Glowing, maybe?

Was it working?

I blinked through the fog, heart pounding like I was about to win the lottery—or get hit by a train.

But then…

A maid stepped through the smoke, holding a tray of something steaming. A soup.

“Sir, madam,” she said calmly, bowing her head.

Not a portal.

Not a time-slip.

Not an escape from this narrative prison.

Just a fucking soup.

I sat on the floor crying, defeated, apron-less—when Damian crouched beside me like I was some wounded creature in need of euthanizing.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“What do you think?” I snapped, mascara running down my cheeks like...