I take her coat. She lets me.
By the time we're back at the table, she's already looking around differently. Not searching for threats. Just looking.
Lukas shoves another beer into her hand, and this time she drinks it.
Martin cracks some joke about the Swiss and she laughs, actually laughs, bright and unguarded.
The music shifts to something with a heavy beat, and I watch her foot start tapping under the table. She's humming along, just barely, like she doesn't even realize she's doing it. Her shoulders loosen, swaying slightly to the rhythm.
A song comes on, something ridiculous and old, and Martin grabs her wrist and pulls her onto the bench.
"Sing with me!" he shouts.
She hesitates for maybe half a second, then climbs up, laughing, one hand on his shoulder for balance, and belts out words she clearly doesn't know.
She looks more alive than I've ever seen her.
I lean back against the wall, beer in hand, just watching.
There's this flash, just for a second, where I remember the first time I dragged her somewhere like this. The way her spine went rigid, the way she held her champagne glass like a shield between her and the noise. How her eyes kept darting to the exits while I grinned, knowing I'd pulled her out of her perfect marble world and dropped her into mine.
I used to love that look on her face.
But she's not wearing it now.
Her coat's draped over someone's chair. Her hair's falling out of its pins, loose strands sticking to her neck. She sways to the music, humming under her breath, fingers tapping the rim of her glass.
And I can’t stop watching her.
Thomas drops into the seat beside me, Katharina tucked under his arm, her fingers laced through his. They're both watching me.
"Don't," I say.
"Didn't say anything," Thomas says.
"You're thinking it."
I look at him, then at her, and I can see the worry behind the smiles. But I can also see the way Thomas's thumb is stroking slow circles on Katharina's shoulder, the way she's leaning into him like he's the only solid thing in the room.
"Are you going to lecture me?" I ask.
Thomas glances at Katharina. She shakes her head, smiling.
"Not today," Thomas says.
Katharina squeezes his hand. "But maybe tomorrow."
I snort and look back at Élise.
She's off the bench now, steering one of the younger techs toward a chair because he's swaying on his feet. She's laughing at something Lukas said, head tipped back, completely unguarded.
She doesn't look like the girl in the VIP box. She doesn't look like the heiress who scanned the room for threats.
She looks free.
And I know, watching her, that she's not drunk on the beer.
She's drunk on not being seen. On not being Moreau. On being just Élise.
