The door slams shut. The echo lingers in the air, but Alex is gone.
The tension in the room is thick, heavy. My pulse pounds against my ribs, my hands still trembling from the fury I unleashed on Alex.
And then there's Michael.
He's still here, standing casually by the window, his hands tucked into his pockets like he owns the place. He watches me, his expression unreadable, but his smirk lingers—just enough to irritate me.
I turn on him, my voice sharp, unsteady. "What the hell do you want from me?"
Michael exhales, tilting his head. "Now that is an interesting question."
I cross my arms, my nails digging into my skin to keep myself grounded. "Don't play with me, Michael. You had that recording for months, didn't you? Why now? Why hold onto it like some twisted insurance policy?"
His smirk deepens, but his eyes—those sharp, assessing eyes—darken slightly. "Because you weren't ready to hear it before."
I scoff. "That's bull—"
