Lyra sat curled up on the leather couch, one leg tucked beneath her as she absentmindedly twisted the silver ring on her finger. Her phone rested in her other hand, screen glowing with unread messages she had no intention of replying to.
The silence from the Welles had stretched for days now. No calls. No follow-ups. Not even their annoyingly polite manager.
She smirked faintly.
"Good," she murmured, tossing the phone onto the cushion beside her. "Mia must've scared him off properly."
A knock came from the door, sharp and familiar.
"Come in, John," she called without looking up.
The door opened with a quiet creak, and John Dawson stepped in like a man already regretting his life choices. His suit was crisp as always, his briefcase polished to perfection, but the deep crease between his brows ruined the effect.
"Lyra," he greeted, voice steady but tired.
She glanced at him, lips curling. "Mr. Dawson. You look like someone just cancelled your favorite contract."
