(Thomas's POV-Before the wine incident.)
Thomas stood in the deepest shadow of a marble pillar, swirling a glass of water he had no intention of drinking.
He hated this. The music was too loud, the perfume was suffocating, and the conversation around him was mind-numbingly stupid. Being a 24-year-old consciousness trapped at a high school dance was a special circle of hell.
His eyes scanned the room, not out of interest, but out of habit. He was looking for the disaster.
He found her immediately.
Rosalie Vanya was impossible to miss. In a sea of tasteful, muted nobility, she was wearing pale yellow silk that looked like bottled sunshine. Her orange hair was pinned up, exposing the curve of her neck.
Thomas felt a sharp, annoying tug in his chest.
'Ridiculous,' he thought, scowling into his water. 'She looks... acceptable. That is all.'
