Cross leaned back into the supple embrace of the leather chair, the familiar scent of aged hide mingling with the faint traces of cologne in the air. A low chuckle—almost a rumble—escaped his lips as he scrutinized Ronan with half-lidded eyes, a glimmer of mischief dancing in their depths. But beneath the surface lay something darker, a glint of mockery that he couldn’t quite mask.

“And since when did you start caring, Ronan?” he drawled, the sarcasm dripping from his words like honey—sweet yet sharp. “I've never known you as someone who gives a damn about anyone except for your own agenda. So, tell me, what’s this sudden interest in...