Willow excused herself with the kind of grace that only came from control.
"I'll be back in a minute," she said lightly, fingers brushing the rim of her glass. "Lipstick emergency."
No one stopped her—not Christy, whose laughter was suddenly too bright, nor the guests who had already begun whispering about the kiss that had cracked the party's perfect surface.
Willow's heels struck marble like punctuation marks—measured, deliberate, final. Each step carried its own echo. By the time she disappeared through the corridor door, the rooftop's pulse had changed. The night had teeth now.
The hum of the city below dimmed. Conversations lowered as though the air itself was waiting for the next fracture.
Miles set his drink down too fast. The glass hit marble with a hard, crystalline sound that turned a few heads. He barely noticed. His gaze found Zane—steady, silent, infuriatingly composed.
