Ryan looked at the woman who had thirteen million people worshipping her every move and still kissed him in front of a firing squad of cameras just to prove a point.
He could lie. He could play the optical illusion card again. He could feed her a corporate excuse, string her along, and keep her orbiting him with plausible deniability.
He didn't break her gaze. His posture remained utterly relaxed, his face a mask of cold, immovable truth.
"She's my assistant and designer," Ryan said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that carried absolutely zero apology. "But I fuck her occasionally."
The words left Ryan's mouth and hit the soundproofed air of the luxury suite like a physical blow.
Down below, the muffled roar of twenty thousand Knicks fans shook the concrete pillars of the arena, a deep, rhythmic vibration that bled upward through the floorboards and into the soles of Ryan's shoes.
Inside the glass box, the silence was absolute.
Zara froze.
