Cooler air met her there, perfumed faintly with roses from a vase along the wall. Her heels clicked softly against the marble—measured, deliberate.
She was halfway down the hall when fingers closed around her wrist.
She turned—sharp, startled—and met Miles Hart's eyes.
Up close, the polish had cracked. The composure she remembered was gone, replaced by something raw and possessive.
"Miles—"
"Not here," he hissed. "We need to talk."
He pulled her toward a side door half-hidden behind a potted fern. The hinges gave softly; a small antechamber waited beyond—lamplight low, silence heavy. The door clicked shut, sealing them off from the world.
The hush inside felt absolute. The faint hum of the party faded, replaced by the slow tick of a clock and the memory of what they'd been.
He turned, breathing unevenly. His eyes scanned her like he couldn't decide whether to apologize or reach out.
Her gaze dropped to his hand still gripping her wrist.
