"Let's not make this worse." I place my hand on Prescott's arm before he can escalate further. Force a laugh that sounds almost genuine. "It's fine, darling. Accidents happen."
His jaw works. The calculation is visible—make a scene or let it go. Finally, he nods. Stiff. Angry. But controlled.
"I should change." I turn to him, widening my eyes in what I hope passes for apologetic. "I won't be long."
He frowns. Studies my face for signs of deception. I keep my expression neutral. Slightly embarrassed. Nothing more.
"Be quick about it." A command, not a request.
I nod. Start toward the stairs. Each step measured. Careful. Not too fast or he'll get suspicious.
But my pulse pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat. In my fingertips. In the champagne-soaked silk clinging to my skin.
The staircase stretches endlessly. I climb deliberately slowly, aware of eyes tracking my movement. Of Prescott watching from below. Of guests pretending not to stare while absolutely staring.
Finally, I reach the landing. Turn down the corridor toward my room.
The sounds of the party fade. Laughter and conversation give way to the muffled quiet of the private quarters.
I reach my door. My hand trembles as I turn the handle. Push it open.
Close it softly behind me.
For a moment, everything is still. The room is dark except for moonlight spilling through the windows. Shadows pool in corners. The air smells like the jasmine perfume I wore earlier. Like the champagne drying on my dress.
Then a shadow moves.
I freeze. Every muscle locks. My pulse roars in my ears.
From the darkest corner near my wardrobe, a figure emerges. Silent. Controlled. Like he's part of the darkness itself.
Paul.
He steps into the moonlight, and the breath leaves my lungs in a rush.
Months. It's been months since I've seen him. Since the engagement announcement, when everything changed.
His hair is different—dyed a mousy brown that washes out his features. Makes him forgettable. Colored contacts dim his eyes to a muddy hazel instead of the striking charcoal gray I remember.
But I know him. Would know him anywhere.
He's leaner. The athletic frame I remember has been honed to something harder. More dangerous. His suit—perfectly tailored, expensive—does nothing to hide the power coiled in his shoulders, his thighs.
My gaze drops to his hands. Those beautiful, capable hands that paint masterpieces. That touched me like I was art. They flex at his sides, fingers moving restlessly.
He's grown stubble. Just a shadow along his jaw, but it changes his face. Makes him look older. Rougher.
And his mouth. God, his mouth. Full lips pressed into a thin line of concentration. Lips that whispered poetry and filth against my skin. That made me come undone with words alone.
Every cell in my body recognizes him. Reaches for him. Like my soul knows his and is trying to bridge the distance.
"Paul." His name falls from my lips. Barely a breath. A prayer.
For a heartbeat, we just stare at each other. The space between us crackles with tension. With months of separation and desperate hope.
Then we're moving.
I don't remember deciding to go to him. Don't remember crossing the room. But suddenly we're colliding—a tangle of arms and desperate hands and mouths seeking mouths.
