The door slammed behind me, the sharp crack of wood against wood splitting through the hall like a gunshot.
"Malcolm!" His voice boomed behind me, deep and commanding, but I didn't stop. Didn't look back.
My breath came fast, sharp, matching the furious rhythm of my footsteps as I stalked through the corridors. My pulse pounded so loudly in my ears that I barely registered the hushed murmurs of servants quickly stepping out of my way.
I hit the stairs two at a time, my muscles burning, but I pushed through, fueled by pure, unfiltered rage.
When I reached the sitting room, I barely spared it a glance. Isabelle was gone. So were her father and the council members.
Good, because I didn't want to see any of their faces right now. The thought of facing them or seeing any of their judgmental cold, knowing eyes, made my blood simmer, my fists clenching so hard my nails dug into my palms.
Since my father had decided to be unreasonable, there was no point in wasting my time trying to explain anything to him.
I stormed through the empty halls, my footsteps echoing like a drumbeat of defiance. The moment I stepped outside, the late afternoon sun slammed into me, hot and blinding, only fueling the fire inside me. My car was parked near the driveway, gleaming under the sunlight like salvation.
My fingers curled into my pocket, gripping my keys so tightly the metal bit into my skin.
Behind me, the heavy thud-thud-thud of boots against marble grew closer.
"Malcolm!" My father's voice was sharper now, edged with fury. "Stop right there!"
Make me. I yanked open the car door, sliding inside with a single, fluid motion. The key jammed into the ignition before I even had a chance to think.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father giving the enforcers stationed at the residence orders to stop me. They tensed immediately, moving to block my exit.
One of them stepped forward, arms outstretched, his stance firm but uncertain. His expression wavered between authority and hesitation, his eyes locking onto mine, a silent plea for compliance.
I wasn't in the mood to be reasonable.
My fingers curled tighter around the wheel, my pulse thrumming in my ears. I revved the engine, the sound reverberating off the courtyard walls like a war drum. His jaw clenched, but he didn't move.
Fine. I'll move for him.
I slammed my foot on the accelerator. The tires shrieked, burning rubber against stone, the force jolting me back against the seat as the car lurched forward. The enforcer's eyes widened—just for a second—before instinct kicked in, and he flung himself out of the way, landing hard on the ground.
In the rearview mirror, I caught a glimpse of my father. His face twisted with rage, his mouth moving, barking something I couldn't hear over the roar of the engine.
The others hesitated for only a fraction of a second before scrambling to clear my path.
Smart choice.
But then I saw it—the gate. Wide open.
I almost laughed. They're trying to stop me, yet they leave the damn gate open? Either arrogance or incompetence, but I wasn't about to stick around and find out which.
Shouts rang out behind me. I didn't care.
The speedometer climbed as I pushed the car harder, the scenery blurring past. The enforcers were nothing but streaks of motion in my peripheral vision, their frantic attempts swallowed by the rush of wind and adrenaline.
For a split second, doubt flickered in my mind. What if they close the gate at the last second?
I met the iron bars ahead with a defiant glare. Do it. I dare you.
At this point? I wouldn't mind crashing straight through.
The gap between me and the gate was closing fast. My heart pounded, but my hands were steady, my grip ironclad on the wheel.
The enforcers must've realized their mistake, because I caught movement near the controls—someone scrambling to shut the gate.
Too late.
I punched the gas, the engine snarling as the car surged forward. If they thought they could trap me here, they had another thing coming.
The gate groaned as it began to slide shut. Not fast enough.
I braced myself, jaw clenched, and shot through the narrowing space with inches to spare. The side mirror clipped the iron bars, snapping clean off with a sharp crack that I barely registered over the rush of escape.
I was free.
The road stretched ahead—empty, endless.
Trees blurred past, the world rushing by in streaks of green and gold as I sped down the winding path. My breath came fast, uneven, the adrenaline still thick in my veins.
Then, slowly, as the distance between me and that house grew wider, the rush began to fade.
The anger remained. But something else crept in.
Didn't matter. A single, nagging thought that refused to be drowned out by the roar of the engine.
"What the hell did I just do?"
---
ASHER:
The day had slipped by in a blur of practiced smiles and automatic movements. The scent of roasted coffee beans, the low hum of conversation, and the soft clatter of porcelain against marble had all blended into the background. I had focused on the rhythm of my tasks, letting the routine soften the sharp edges of my thoughts.
Thankfully, Liam had kept his distance. Maybe he'd sensed the tension radiating off me, or maybe he'd just found someone else to feed his self-righteous ramblings. Either way, I was grateful. The last thing I needed was another conversation laced with casual cruelty.
By the time my break rolled around, I was more than ready for a moment of solitude. I slipped into the back, finding a quiet corner near the supply shelves where the scent of cinnamon and fresh bread lingered. I leaned against the cool wooden surface, closing my eyes for a brief moment.
I hadn't been able to shake the memory of Malcolm's close proximity in the alley. If I had leaned in just an inch, our lips would have met.
What would kissing Malcolm feel like? The thought made my heart race and my cheeks warm.
"Asher," a voice cut into my thoughts, light and teasing.
I cracked an eye open to see Margret standing there, her arms crossed and a smirk pulling at her lips. She was one of the few people at The Gilded Spoon who didn't get on my nerves—sharp-witted, quick with a joke, and too perceptive for her own good.
"You've got a visitor," she said, tilting her head toward the café floor.
I frowned. "A visitor?"
Her smirk widened. "Yes, your favorite customer is here."
I straightened up, confusion flickering through me. Since when did I have a favorite customer? "Favorite customer?"
Margret chuckled, amusement dancing in her eyes. "The Mayor's son. Malcolm Hayes."