Marcus clapped him on the shoulder, saying something I couldn’t hear. Drogo’s response was short, clipped. Then he turned away.
Putting his back to me.
Deliberately.
The brunette saw her opening and moved closer.
She touched his arm. Lightly. Casually.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.
My fingers tightened around the glass Lucy handed me until I thought it might shatter.
“You okay?” Lucy asked, eyes sharp.
“Yeah,” I lied. “Just coming down from the adrenaline.”
She didn’t believe me. I could see it in her face. But she didn’t push.
We drank. We laughed. Marcus told terrible jokes. Lucy recounted every moment of my performance like she’d filmed it in her mind.
And Drogo stood ten feet away, close enough to touch, acting like I didn’t exist.
Like this morning never happened.
Like last night on the balcony—his hands on my hips, my thighs over his, that charged silence between us—never happened.
The brunette laughed at something he said. He smiled—barely, but still. More than he’d given me all night.
My stomach twisted into knots.
Oh.
So that’s how it is.
Fine.
I downed my drink and ordered another.
If he wanted distance, I’d give him distance. If he wanted to pretend this morning meant nothing, I could pretend too.
I turned my back to him—deliberately, the way he’d done to me—and focused on Lucy and Marcus. Laughed louder. Smiled brighter. Played the part of the woman who didn’t care.
But my skin still buzzed from his gaze during the performance. My body still remembered his arms this morning, the way he’d held me like I was the only real thing in his world.
And now?
Now he couldn’t even look at me.
Hours later, when the crowd thinned and the lights came up, I grabbed my coat.
“Heading out?” Marcus asked.
“Yeah. Early morning tomorrow. Deadline.”
Lie. But a good one.
Lucy hugged me goodbye. “You were amazing tonight. Seriously.”
