Draven.
When the convoy slowed to a stop along the remote roadside, I stepped out of the Maybach and immediately felt it—a stare.
I turned slightly, gaze flicking toward the Mercedes van parked behind us.
That was when I saw Meredith. She seemed to have noticed me, dropped her hands with a sharpness too precise to be casual, and pivoted back toward me. Avoiding me.
My jaw tensed, a breath leaving through my nose. She was still bitter from last night.
Good.
I had done what I intended. Her pride had cracked, and she couldn't even bring herself to mouth off that time. But the strange part wasn't her silence—it was her retreat. I had expected another sharp-tongued comeback, another glare, another game of pride and venom.
But instead, she had hidden. Ten whole minutes in the bathroom last night—stalling. It had amused me.
Almost.
I didn't know what disappointed me more. That she had chosen cowardice, or that a part of me had missed the fight.
