CHAPTER 180

**ZION**

My gaze shifts to her—Winter—sitting just a few feet away, and for a second, everything else fades.

“She’s someone… very special to me,” I say, the words gravelled and low, rough around the edges like they’ve been dragged from somewhere deep I didn’t mean to reach.

She pauses.

The pen stills in her hand, her fingers curling slightly around it. Slowly, she looks up—eyes meeting mine, wide with something I can’t quite name. Surprise maybe… or confusion.

Maybe it’s because, for once, I actually sounded like I meant it. Like I wasn’t hiding behind the usual mess of pride and fury.

The asshole chuckles, the sound low and mocking, a cruel ripple under my skin, like a blade scraping against bone.

“Special, huh? I see.” His eyes never leave mine, his smirk only widening, like he can taste the bitterness pouring off me.

“Let me guess,” he sneers, leaning in like he’s savouring the moment. 

“You’re the bitter ex—lingering in the shadows, desperate for leftovers, praying she’ll toss you a pity fuck. Hoping she’ll spread her legs just long enough for you to stick your sad little dick in and pretend for a second that the past meant something.”

My jaw tightens, my hands trembling with the urge to rip his smug face off, fury burning through my veins like wildfire.

“You open your mouth about her like that again,” I growl, voice low and shaking with barely restrained rage, 

“and I swear, I’ll make sure you choke on every filthy word.”

My fists clench, jaw tight, every instinct screaming to wipe that smug look off his face. 

“You don’t get to talk about her. Not like that. Not ever.”

His gaze shifts to Winter, who’s trying hard to pretend she’s unaffected, eyes fixed on the papers in front of her. 

But the way she grips the pen tightly and with a tremble I know she won’t admit tells me she’s barely holding it together.

Then Damien just laughs—low, mocking, infuriating.

“Touch a nerve, did I?” he says, tilting his head with that same arrogant smirk. 

“Funny, you act like you’re her guard dog, but from where I’m standing, she doesn’t seem to need—or want—you.”

He leans back casually, arms crossed, eyes gleaming with challenge.

“Maybe what she really needs,” Damien drawls, leaning forward with that disgusting, lecherous grin,

"Is a man who actually knows how to satisfy a woman.”

My blood goes cold, then hot—boiling, pulsing. I shoot up from my seat, the chair screeching back.

“You fucking piece of—”

“Enough!” Winter snaps, her voice loud and sharp as a whip.

Everything halts. 

The clatter of trays, the buzz of conversation—gone. Silence crashes over the cafeteria like a tidal wave. 

Every pair of eyes is on us now.

I’m still standing, fists clenched, jaw tight, but her voice is the only thing keeping me from lunging at him. 

Slowly, I drag my glare from Damien to her.

Winter rises from her seat, her expression unreadable, but the fire behind her eyes is clear. 

She slams her pen down onto the table with a harsh snap.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Damien,” she says, her words slicing clean. 

“You could spend your whole life learning how to satisfy a woman and still never even graze the surface of what it’d take to satisfy me… Hell, you’d need a manual, a map, divine intervention—and someone to hold your hand the whole way. And even then? You’d probably still screw it up.”

A few gasps echo around the cafeteria, and someone actually chokes on their drink.

I don’t even try to hide the smirk tugging at my lips as Winter shuts him down with the precision of a sniper.

Damn. 

That’s my girl.

The look on Damien’s face is priceless—like he just got slapped with a frozen fish and still can’t decide whether it stings or smells worse.

Clark, sitting beside me, lets out a dramatic whistle. 

“Manual, map, miracle—and still needs a tour guide? Bro, just say you're lost and give up.”

He leans over to me and adds, “At this point, even Google Maps couldn’t help him.”

“...I don’t care how you satisfy your women, Damien,” Winter scoffs, her voice dripping with disdain. 

“But clearly, they must have some serious issues if they’re buying whatever crap you're selling.”

“..Honestly, I can’t even imagine what kind of woman would fall for your arrogant act. But then again, desperation does make people do some pretty dumb things, doesn’t it?”

Damien opens his mouth, but Winter doesn't let him get a word out.

“You’re pathetic, Damien. And the sad part is, you think I’m impressed. News flash: I’m not.”

I can't help but feel a strange sense of awe at her—she's owning this, and she's owning it so damn effortlessly.

Damien’s expression freezes for a moment, his eyes widening slightly in surprise as if he didn’t expect Winter to hit back so hard. 

For a split second, his smugness falters, his confidence shaken by the sharpness of her words.

But then, that familiar smirk slowly curls up at the corner of his lips, like he’s finally seeing something new, something... intriguing. 

His gaze flickers over her, as if he’s appreciating her more now, something darker and more appreciative behind his eyes.

"Wow. You’ve got more bite than I thought. I kinda like that. It’s fucking sexy,” he says, voice low and smug, like he actually thinks he’s charming.

Winter shoots him a venomous glare, her voice razor-sharp and laced with disgust.

“Careful, Damien,” she says coldly, leaning in just enough for her words to land like a slap. 

“Getting turned on by a woman putting you in your place isn’t bold—it’s pathetic. Go get your ego checked before it embarrasses you again. Oh and yes..I bite—but not the way you’re hoping, creep.””

The smirk drops off his face for a beat, and I swear the entire room holds its breath.

Then she spins on me, and for a split second, I see the same fire burning in her eyes.  

And my stomach twists.

Fuck!

“And you, Zion?” she says, her tone cutting through the air like a blade of ice.

“You’ve been the same arrogant asshole as always. I don’t need you to defend me—I’m not some damsel in distress. I can take care of myself, and I sure as hell don’t need you playing bodyguard like I’m your fucking responsibility.”

She doesn’t stop there. Her eyes flash with frustration as she gestures to the chaos around us.

“You’re not even supposed to be here. You didn’t come to help—you came to stir shit up. Why are you even sitting here, Zion? Seriously. Since you showed up, you’ve done nothing but derail my time, my focus, and any chance I had of actually finishing this damn project.”

My mouth opens, but for a second, nothing comes out. 

She’s right—and hearing it from her, like that, hits harder than I expected—and the worst part is, she’s right.

She’s angry, and I can see it in the way she holds herself. Her arms are crossed, her stance defensive. 

And it’s not just Damien anymore—it’s me. 

It’s like all of a sudden, I’m the one she’s pissed at, too.

“I don’t know why you think I was in some kind of trouble that you needed to step in like some knight in shining armour,” she says, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. 

“There was no battle to fight, Zion. I can handle myself. I’m not some fucking damsel in distress.”

She leans in closer, her eyes locking onto mine, and for the first time, I see something deeper beneath the anger. The hurt. The disappointment.

“I’ve survived all the hell you put me through, all the humiliation. So yeah, I think I’m more than capable of getting through this stupid project with... this moron,” she adds, gesturing to Damien without even sparing him a glance.

Every single word she spits out is a brutal reminder of how much I’ve screwed up, of how far I’ve fallen in her eyes. 

She might say we’re friends—But the way she’s looking at me—the hurt I put in her eyes—it’s like a scar I carved with my own hands. Something permanent. A mark I’ll never be able to erase. A fucking brand that’s burned into both of us. 

She’s never going to forget what I’ve done to her.

What the hell am I supposed to do now?

I’ve messed up. 

Again.

I want to apologize, to fix it, but the words are stuck in my throat.

“Everything alright over here, or are these testosterone-choked idiots giving you a hard time?” Claire's voice slices through the tension, sharp and laced with attitude as she eyes each of us like we’re misbehaving toddlers.

Ariel stands quietly beside her, shifting on her feet, clearly wishing she were anywhere else.

Shit. When the hell did they get here?

Ro straightens up immediately, flashing Claire a grin that’s all charm and zero shame.

“Trouble? Nah,” he drawls with a wink. 

“Just a little friendly chaos. You know us—we live to entertain.”

Claire rolls her eyes, her lips curling into a half-amused, half-disbelieving smirk. 

“Oh, *entertainment*,” she says, voice dripping with sarcasm. 

“I didn’t realize I was in the middle of a circus. Should I get a front-row seat...?”

“...Or Maybe you guys should take this... ‘fun’ somewhere else. You know, like outside, where you can measure who’s got the biggest dick. Don’t think anyone here really wants to watch it play out.”

Before Ro can make a comeback, she turns to Winter, clearly done with the entire mess. 

“Want to come and sit with us over there. These morons can measure their egos while we actually get some work done.”

Winter grabs the papers with sharp, precise movements—like every motion is an effort to keep herself from saying something she’ll regret. 

Or maybe, something I would hate hearing. 

Her fingers brush the edge of the table, her jaw tight, eyes focused on anything but me.

“You don’t need to ask me twice—Just give me a minute—” she says, voice cool and clipped. 

"I need to use the restroom, first” ” she mutters, 

Claire gives Winter a nod, then turns back to us—eyes narrowing like she’s sizing us up for a verbal punch.

“You know,” she says coolly, her tone laced with disdain, 

“If half the testosterone in this room went into your brains instead of your dicks, maybe this project would actually be done by now....”

“Anyways...Good luck, boys. Don't break anything... or anyone.”

Claire doesn’t wait for a response—just spins on her heel and walks off after Ariel, her heels clicking with every step like punctuation marks to her irritation. Before she goes, she shoots us one last, pointed look, her voice dripping with sarcasm: 

Winter walks away.

No glance. No pause. Nothing.

Just turns on her heel and leaves, like I’m nothing more than background noise—white static in a life she’s trying to move forward in. And I watch her go, my heart pounding in a way that has nothing to do with rage or pride. Just this aching, hollow weight sitting square in my chest.

She didn’t just walk away.

She erased me.

Fuck.