Kyle finally pushed open the door to the Royal Suite, his body heavy with exhaustion. The day had been relentless—Viktor, Eleanor, the youths with their ball, the endless weight of navigating a city that never stopped moving.
He didn't greet anyone. He didn't stop to chat. He walked straight to his bedroom, collapsed onto the bed, and buried his face in the pillow.
"I don't wish to be disturbed," he mumbled into the fabric. "I want to sleep away the day."
The door creaked.
Kyle didn't need to look up. He knew that creak. He knew the footsteps that followed it—light, deliberate, completely uninvited.
"Ella."
She stood at the bedside, her arms crossed, her expression perfectly neutral. She didn't say anything, didn't move. She just stood there, watching him like a scientist with a fascinating test subject.
Kyle kept his face buried in the pillow.
"Ella. Please, not now."
Silence.
