The rain had stopped an hour ago, but the Starlight Gardens still smelled like it was waiting for another storm.
Miles adjusted his cufflinks and caught his reflection in the glass — sharp suit, calm expression, a man curated for success.
On paper, he looked like someone celebrating an engagement.
Inside, he was a live wire in a glass cage.
Christy's laughter rippled across the hall — bright, honeyed, and hollow. She was stunning tonight, every detail curated to broadcast triumph. The future Mrs. Vance. Perfect optics. Perfect trophy.
And Miles — he was supposed to be the man who had everything.
He signaled the waiter for another drink. The champagne was too sweet; it clung to his tongue like a lie.
"Scotch," he said instead, his voice lower than intended.
