I walked over, grin ready despite the knot forming in my stomach. “So? Did I trip?”
Lucy hugged me hard, nearly lifting me off the ground. “You were fucking incredible!”
Marcus fist-bumped me, grinning. “Queen of the stage. Absolute fire.”
“Thank you, guys!” I laughed—but my eyes were already searching for him.
Drogo’s hug was… nothing.
Arms loose. Body stiff. Over in a second. Like hugging a stranger. Like I hadn’t woken up in his bed this morning, hadn’t traced his tattoos while sitting on his lap last night, hadn’t cried in his arms while he read me fairy tales.
“Good job,” he said, voice flat, eyes sliding past me like I was a stranger.
No hug. No smile. No warmth.
Just two words that felt like a slap.
Good job.
Like I’d turned in a decent report. Like I hadn’t just bared myself—literally—in front of a hundred people while he watched.
This morning he held me through a panic attack. Cooked for me. Sat behind me with his arms around my waist, murmuring keep going when my fingers slowed.
Tonight I gave everything I had on that stage—and he can’t even look at me?
My skin still buzzed from the lights, from the eyes on me, from the way I’d felt powerful. But his cold hug stripped it all away. I felt naked again—not in a sexy way. In a small, exposed, invisible way.
“Thanks,” I said, smile freezing on my face.
Then I saw her.
Some brunette at the bar—short red dress, legs for days, the kind of effortless beauty that doesn’t need stage lights to shine. She’d been hovering near our table earlier—I’d clocked her from the stage. Now she was closer, drink in hand, eyes tracking Drogo’s every move.
He didn’t notice. Or pretended not to.
My stomach twisted.
Is that why? Some random woman catching his eye while I was half-naked for the world?
Or worse—is there someone? Has there been someone this whole time?
While I was straddling him on the balcony, he was hard beneath me, hands gripping my hips like he wanted to keep me there forever. While I was crying in his arms, he was pressing kisses to my hair, holding me like I mattered.
Was that all just… comfort? Habit? Seventeen years of muscle memory while his heart belonged somewhere else?
The high from the stage crashed hard.
Powerful up there. Invisible down here.
Lucy grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the bar. “Come on, let’s get you a proper drink. You earned it.”
I let her lead me, but I couldn’t stop glancing back at him.
Drogo stood there, drink in hand, jaw still tight, eyes finally meeting mine across the crowd.
That same look from the stage. Burning. Freezing. Wanting—and… what? Anger? Fear?
I didn’t understand.
