Not when she later learned Olivia had been there that same day, introduced publicly as his protégée.
But now—over a sprained ankle—he apologized.
She almost laughed at the irony.
“Since when do you say sorry?” she asked lightly, trying to keep her voice steady.
He avoided her eyes, focusing instead on spreading the liniment carefully over her swollen skin.
“I should’ve checked it earlier,” he admitted. “It’s worse than I thought.”
The sincerity in his tone tugged at something fragile inside her.
For a fleeting second, she felt the warmth she had once clung to.
But it faded just as quickly.
“It’s only a sprain,” she said with a faint smile. “It’s not worth an apology.”
Yet as she spoke, she knew the apology wasn’t really about her ankle.
And that was what hurt most.
Adriana knew how dangerous tenderness could be.
If she allowed herself to soften now—if she clung to this small flicker of warmth—her resolve to leave the territory might crumble.
She inhaled slowly, steadying herself.