Chapter 8 Pre Nervous

POV: Elara

Elara stared at the untouched breakfast tray like it might bite first.

Poached eggs. Roasted tomatoes. A slice of sourdough toast, browned just right. Everything plated with meticulous care, down to the tiny sprig of parsley that mocked her from the side.

Too perfect. Too controlled.

Her stomach didn't growl. It curled. Twisted in on itself, not from hunger, but from the kind of tension that hums low in your spine - the kind you don't notice until it's too loud to ignore. Like standing on the edge of something you can't see, waiting for the ground to disappear.

She poured herself a glass of water from the carafe. Watched the condensation gather and trickle down the side like it was stalling for her.

One sip.

Cool. Tasteless. Unhelpful.

She set the glass down without finishing.

Then crossed the room to the mirror.

Tied her hair back - low, clean, professional. The trembling in her fingers only showed for a second. Just long enough to remind her this was real.

She steadied her shoulders. Practiced her face. Neutral. Unreadable. Detached, but not cold.

Clinical.

Because this wasn't just another session.

And she wasn't just walking into any room.

She was walking into his.

Zane Atticus Mercer was waiting.