MINE TO OWN
Later that night, in a quiet room off the east corridor, Joana found him—Zane, seated in one of the reading lounges, half-consumed by a massive book on Russian trade dynasties.
“You’re changing,” she said, not unkindly.
Zane looked up. “Am I?”
She sat opposite him. “You walk like someone who knows where they’re going now.”
“I’m still here, Joana. Still caged.”
“Maybe.” She leaned forward. “But you’re sharpening your teeth.”
Zane closed the book. “Why does that matter to you?”
Joana tilted her head. “Because sooner or later, the house will crack. And when it does, I want to know which side of the rubble you’re standing on.”
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