Alya
It's been two weeks since the wedding.
Fourteen days.
Three hundred and thirty-six hours.
And James has been avoiding me with the kind of tactical precision usually reserved for wartime extractions or CIA black sites.
A chance to talk to him privately? Fail.
A moment to so much as casually touch his hand or—God forbid—mention the kiss? Fail.
Complete, fiery, nuclear fail.
He's around. Technically. I see him in rooms. At briefings. Strategy sessions. He's polite. Cool. Razor-sharp. The same magnetic, collected bastard everyone's terrified to disappoint.
But to me? I get maybe two words. A clipped nod. A passing glance that lasts less than a second and somehow still manages to skip over my existence like I'm part of the wallpaper.
It's gotten to the point where even Wan noticed, and he has the emotional range of a granite countertop.
