Rhea paused in front of Ares's door, her hand hovering inches from the surface, her breath held so tight her chest ached. Nothing seemed out of place. Maybe she had overthought the entire dinner.
It was entirely possible Nikki was just using that juice as a prop to assert a false sense of domesticity—a performance, a petty power play intended to provoke. Rhea exhaled slowly. Still, irritation lingered beneath her skin, because it had worked.
Control was rarely loud. It didn't always come in the form of orders or threats; sometimes it was quieter. A look held too long. A gesture repeated just enough times to feel deliberate. A situation arranged so carefully that the reaction became inevitable. Nikki had not told Rhea what to feel, yet she had guided her there all the same.
