"I'm sorry about that. He's my friend." Cleo apologized as she settled back into her chair, her gaze drifting toward the door where Michaela had stormed out, leaving a whirlwind of tension behind her. Her eyes landed on Keiran, who sat across the room, his piercing gaze tattooing itself onto her skin like an artist's brush on canvas.
"Oh, it's alright." Dominic replied, offering a warm smile that could melt the coldest of hearts. He was the son of the Marquee in the South—a man of high society, polished and intelligent, seemingly perfect for marriage. Yet, Cleo felt nothing for him. Even when she tried to muster some affection, it remained unromantic. She appreciated his calm demeanor and his lack of narcissism; he didn't grope girls on their first date like McMillan had done. In her mind, she silently thanked whoever had broken McMillan's nose. "I was just stunned and a little confused," he chuckled, and Cleo joined him in laughter.
