The ballroom lights were too warm.
Too bright.
Too loud.
People moved in clusters—costumes sparkling under chandeliers, laughter spilling into the music. But none of it anchored me. Not the noise. Not Lara's hand on my arm. Not the polished, familiar sheen of another elite party.
The only thing grounding me was the echo of my own voice.
"Michelle. Can we talk?"
I had said it without thinking.
No plan.
No logic.
Just instinct.
I followed her and Andy out to the balcony, saw the two of them in the amber city glow—him leaning close, her smiling in that quiet way she didn't use with many people—and something inside me tightened in a way I didn't like.
Not jealousy.
Not exactly.
More like… misalignment.
As though something in the scene was wrong and I'd only just noticed.
When she looked up at me—surprised, unsure—I heard myself speak the words before I could second-guess them.
"Inside," I murmured.
She followed.
Andy let her.
And that alone made my chest twist.
--
