"You fucker!" Andrea yelled.
The chair went down behind him with a sharp crack on the polished floor.
At last.
Arion did not move.
He only watched Andrea stand there, breathing hard, all that beautiful training split open by one sentence. The red hair still fell perfectly over his shoulders; the dark blue eyes were still framed by those heavy lashes; the posture still carried the remnants of elegance, but the careful, untouchable composure had finally fractured enough for something uglier and more honest to crawl through.
Rage. Humiliation. Fear.
Arion preferred that. Rage could be read. Humiliation could be used. Fear told the truth faster than manners ever did.
"There you are," Arion said quietly.
Andrea's mouth twisted. "Do not speak to me like you won something."
"I did not win anything. I asked a question, and you finally stopped performing."
