The air in the rooftop ballroom was thick with the scent of money and Chloe’s signature white lilies.
Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto a sea of curated smiles and designer gowns.
As the planner, I should have been watching the catering staff, but I was hiding in plain sight, a black clipboard my only shield.
My own dress, a sheath of emerald silk, felt like both armor and a cage. I was *not* a guest. I was the architect, and this was my creation: Marcus and Chloe’s engagement party.
From across the room, I watched Chloe glow, her hand resting possessively on Marcus’s arm. They were the perfect picture.
My gaze, however, kept snagging on a disruptive slash of black in the corner. Rhys. He leaned against a marble pillar, a glass of whiskey in his hand, looking less like a guest and more like a panther casing the joint.
He hadn’t spoken a word to me since the frosting-fueled chaos at the bakery two days ago, but I felt the weight of his stare every time I turned my back.
The memory of his thumb tracing my swollen lower lip in that cramped pantry was a phantom burn, a secret humming just beneath my skin.
“There you are. “
A familiar, safe warmth enveloped me. My entire body went rigid.
Marcus. *The groom*. His cologne, a clean, woodsy scent that was as much a part of my past as my own name, wrapped around me.
“Mr. Thorne,” I said, my voice clipped. I didn’t turn around. “Is there a problem with the bar service?”
“Ava, stop,” he murmured, his voice a low, smooth melody against my ear. He was too close. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me. “
“I’m working,” I said, forcing a smile that felt brittle. “Just making sure your night is perfect. “
“I know,” he said, his blue eyes softening as I finally turned to face him. “It’s one of the things I. . . ” He trailed off as the band shifted from a lively jazz number to a slow, sweeping ballad. His hand, which had been on my arm, slid to my waist. “Dance with me, Ava. For old time’s sake. “
“Marcus, I can’t. I’m staff,” I hissed, trying to pull away. “And that’s your fiancée, watching us. “
“She won’t mind. It’s just one dance,” he insisted, and with Marcus, it was always an insistence.
He led me to the edge of the floor, his hand firm in the small of my back, guiding me into the familiar steps we’d perfected over years of charity galas. It was easy. It was comfortable. And it was horrifying.
My body knew this rhythm, this man. My head rested against his chest, the steady beat of his heart a familiar lullaby. This was the life that made sense. A life of predictable chords and graceful turns.
But he was *not* mine. He was my client. He was my ex.
“I’ve missed this,” Marcus whispered, his breath warm against my temple. He pulled back just enough to look down at me, his thumb stroking my cheek. “I’ve missed you. I’ve been thinking about you constantly since that first day in your office. “
My heart did a complicated little stutter-step.
his was wrong, all of it. But for a dizzying second, I wanted to grab onto it, to let the safety of it drown out the chaotic noise that Rhys had introduced into my life.
Maybe this was the “safe choice” making a final bid.
“Marcus, I—”
“Don’t say anything now,” he murmured, pulling me close again. “Just think about it. “
I risked a glance over his shoulder. Rhys was still there, but he was no longer slouched. He was rigid, his gaze a physical thing, pinning me from across the room.
His expression was unreadable, but the intensity in his dark eyes made the fine hairs on my arms stand up.
He lifted his glass to his lips, his eyes never leaving mine. A silent, mocking toast.
When the song ended, I pulled away like I’d been burned. “I have to check on the kitchen,” I said, my throat too tight to speak.
The moment I disappeared into the crowd, the curated elegance of the room began to suffocate me. I needed air. I needed to escape the ghost of our near-kiss in the pantry and the all-too-real promise in Marcus’s arms.
Murmuring an excuse to a waiter, I slipped through a set of French doors onto the deserted balcony.