I don't cook for cowards

After leaving the studio, I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but a sour, gnawing sensation churned in my chest, something I would almost…never admit to.

It wasn't just a pang; it was deeper, more irritating, like the unwelcome scratch of wool on skin. Was I actually jealous? The thought alone was enough to make me roll my eyes at myself.

"Ridiculous," I muttered, gripping the steering wheel a little harder than necessary as I sped toward my villa.

Jealousy wasn't exactly something I wore well—or at all. I'd spent too many years building walls, keeping my feelings buttoned up, and making it clear to anyone who came near that I wasn't interested in messy emotions.

And yet, that infuriating memory of Maeve leaning in, whispering in Layla's ear, practically taunting me, crawled back into my mind, uninvited.