Christy waited until after the engagement party. She didn't slam doors or pace or cry into a pillow. She sat on the velvet chaise in his living room, back straight, hands folded neatly on her lap, her long champagne-colored gown flowing around her like liquid metal. She looked like perfection carved into a woman. The kind of perfection that made lesser men step back.
The front door opened. Miles entered with that stiff post-party smile he always wore—polished, rehearsed, meant to hide whatever mess lived underneath. But the moment he saw her posture, his smile faltered. Christy was not a woman who waited in silence unless something had snapped.
He shut the door behind him. "You didn't come back to the ballroom after you went to get some air."
"I didn't need air," she said. "I needed clarity."
He paused, adjusting his cufflinks more forcefully than necessary, as if he could smooth out the tension by fixing the gold edges. "Christy, if this is about the planning—"
