Chapter 12
The ballroom foyer held its breath. The chandeliers threw warm light across the marble, and the carpet swallowed sound except for the low hum of conversation behind the half-closed double doors. I could still feel the heat of his hand around mine, his palm damp against my fingers, his silver chain catching light every time he shifted his weight. He hadn't let go since the revolving doors.
He — the man by the doors — wasn't moving toward me. He was waiting. His hands were at his sides, relaxed, and his eyes stayed on my face, not on the hand that was still being held. That made it worse. I was being held, not holding.
I looked down at our hands. The contrast was stupid and precise: his burgundy satin sleeve, my emerald strap slipping just off my shoulder, his knuckles white where he gripped. My fingers had gone cold.
"Let go," I said.
My voice was low. I wasn't sure either of them heard it over the music leaking from the ballroom.
The man beside me — blond hair still perfect, jaw tight — didn't release me. He hesitated. His grip loosened a fraction, then tightened again, as if letting go would be the thing that made this real.
"Not here," he murmured, barely moving his mouth. He leaned in, his shoulder brushing mine. "We stay together. We talked about this."
We hadn't. He had talked. I had walked because his hand had pulled me.
I tried again, a little louder. "Let go of my hand."
His eyes flicked to the other man, then back to me. A quick, sharp glance that was supposed to remind me of whatever deal he'd made before we walked through those glass doors. His fingers flexed.
"You're making this harder," he said under his breath. "You don't know what you're doing."
That was the line he always used. I felt the old reflex to go still, to let him decide. The foyer air felt too warm, perfume and champagne and the faint smell of his cologne. My breathing was shallow. I could see our reflection in the dark glass beside the ballroom doors — the green dress too bright, the two men framing me, my own mouth set in a line I didn't recognize.
I didn't wait for him to decide.
I turned my wrist. Slowly, deliberately, I pulled my fingers back through his. His grip caught for a second on my knuckles, and then it broke. The air hit my skin where his palm had been. My hand was empty and light and a little shaky. I curled it into a fist, then let it hang at my side.
I took a step to the left, just one step, onto the plain marble where no one was holding me. The distance was small — eighteen inches, maybe two feet — but the sound of my heel on the stone was loud. I could feel the strap of my dress settle. I could feel my own weight again.
The man in the burgundy shirt stared at his own empty hand. He didn't reach for me again. His hand hovered, then dropped. He slid it into his black pants pocket like he needed somewhere to put it. His restrained expression cracked, just at the corner of his mouth.
"You don't get to do that," he said, but his voice had no pull in it anymore. He looked past me to the other man, as if asking for backup.
The other man finally moved. Not toward him. Toward me, but only with his eyes first, then with a small, respectful nod.
He took a half step forward and kept his distance. He kept his hands visible, open.
"I saw that," he said. His voice was even, low enough that only the three of us heard it. "Thank you for making that clear."
He glanced at the man in burgundy, then back to me. He didn't touch me. He didn't try to take the hand I had just freed.
"Do you want to step aside?" he asked me. "Just you and I, over by the windows. There's a table there. No one else. We can talk for two minutes. If you want to go back inside after, you can. If you want to leave, you can use the side hall. No one will follow you."
He gestured — not pointing, just opening his palm — toward the far end of the foyer where the chandeliers thinned and a row of tall windows looked out over the hotel drive. A small round table, two chairs, empty. Far enough from the ballroom doors that the music would be a murmur.
I looked at the man who had brought me here. He was standing alone now, pocketed hand, satin shirt catching the light wrong because he was no longer next to me. Isolated by the space I'd made. He didn't look dangerous anymore. He just looked like a man who had lost his leverage and knew it.
I nodded to the other man. "Yes."
May you like
I didn't take his offered hand. I walked beside him, my own arms at my sides, my green dress moving with me. My hand stayed empty, and for the first time since the revolving doors, the floor under my heels felt like mine.
Behind me, I heard the man in burgundy shift his weight, but he didn't follow.
