The band shifts. The chatter music fades into something slower, smoother, meant for couples to drift onto the floor. My body moves before my brain can second-guess. I set down my glass, cut through the clusters of sequins and tuxedos, and make for her.
People part without knowing why. Maybe it’s the suit, maybe it’s the captain thing, maybe it’s just me moving like a man with a singular purpose.
Her eyes find me when I’m halfway there. I see the panic, the thrill, the flush that creeps into her cheeks. I see her weighing everything at once — her father, the whispers, the danger. And still she doesn’t move away.
When I stop in front of her, I don’t hedge. I hold out my hand.
“Dance with me.”
No pretending. No careful phrasing. A demand dressed as an invitation.
Her breath stutters. “Triston…”
“Don’t think,” I cut in, softer now. “Just say yes.”
The room waits with us. Maybe not consciously, but I can feel it. The hum of conversation dulls, the lights feel hotter. Everyone pretending not to watch but waiting anyway.
And then she places her hand in mine.
We walk to the center together.
Her body slides against mine and suddenly I’m whole. My hand finds her waist — low, solid, claiming. Her fingers rest against my chest, right over my heart, and I swear it knocks harder just to prove it’s alive. The music pulls us into rhythm, and the ballroom ceases to exist.
“You’re insane,” she whispers, eyes locked on mine.
“Probably.” I pull her closer, not enough for scandal — not yet — but enough to make my body hum. “But you’re still here with me.”
“Because you didn’t give me a choice.”
“Wrong.” My lips hover near her ear, the words meant only for her. “You gavemeone. Back in that hotel. And you said yes. Tonight’s mine.”
Her laugh is breathless, shaky. “My dad is watching.”
“Let him,” I growl. “Let every one of them watch. They need to learn something I already know.”
“And what’s that?”
“That you’re not theirs.” My grip tightens at her waist, thumb stroking the velvet. “You’re mine.”
Her gasp is soft, sharp. Her nails press into my chest like she’s anchoring herself. “Triston, this is—”
“Real,” I cut in. “And I’m done pretending otherwise.”
Her eyes burn into me, torn between terror and exhilaration. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“I’m not.” I spin her gently, draw her back against me, mouth at her temple. “I’m deciding it for me. I love you, Sammie. I’m not hiding it anymore.”
Her breath catches like she’s been struck. For a moment, I think she’ll pull away. For a moment, I brace for the worst.
But when she looks back at me, her lips curve in a trembling smile. “You really are insane.”
“Only for you.”
And before she can remind me of her father, before she can tell me all the reasons why this is impossible, I lean down and kiss her.
The room gasps. I hear it — the sharp intake of breath, the murmurs rising like a tide. My teammates’ laughter cuts off mid-note, donors whispering, cameras clicking faster. But none of it matters.
Her lips are warm, sweet, unhesitating. She opens to me like she’s been waiting for this moment as long as I have. My hand steadies her at the waist, my other hand cradles her cheek, and I kiss her like the truth it is.
