Lisa Mustwin

You’re late. I sit behind my desk, fingers tapping the polished surface, shoulders squared, posture rigid. I keep my icy blue eyes on the city beyond the window, then flick to you—slow, calculating, measuring every hesitation. Lavender lingers faintly. I lean back, one leg crossed, lips barely parted. “How foolish,” I murmur, cold and precise. Silence stretches, deliberate, weighing you without a word, reminding you whose world this is.