The next two hours were torture. Marianne moved through the gala with the practiced grace of someone who had attended hundreds of such events, but every nerve in her body was attuned to Isla's location. She tracked her across the room without looking directly at her. Felt her presence like a magnetic pull that grew stronger with every passing minute.
They didn't speak. Didn't acknowledge each other beyond the briefest of professional nods when their paths crossed near the champagne station. They were perfect, careful, adhering to every rule they had established.
And it wasn't enough.
She positioned herself where she could watch Isla without appearing to watch. Isla laughing at something Dr. Hartman said. Isla accepting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Isla bending to examine a piece of art in the silent auction, the line of her back elegant beneath the black fabric of her dress.
Every movement felt like a deliberate provocation. Every smile Isla directed at someone else felt like something stolen from Marianne. She knew it was irrational, knew that jealousy had no place in an arrangement built on casual convenience, but the feelings didn't care about logic.
Halfway through the evening, Isla glanced in her direction. Their eyes met for just a moment, and Marianne saw her own desperate hunger reflected back at her. Isla looked away first, returning her attention to the conversation she had been having, but her posture had changed. Tenser. More aware.
They both knew this was a test they were failing.
By ten o'clock, Marianne was desperate. The constant awareness of Isla, the effort of maintaining composure while her body ached with wanting, had worn her down to the breaking point. She needed air. Space. A moment to compose herself before she did something unforgivable.
She slipped out of the ballroom and into the hotel's service corridor, where the catering staff moved with purpose and the glamour of the gala gave way to the practical machinery of hospitality. The air was cooler here, smelling of industrial cleaner and coffee. Marianne leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, trying to bring her racing heart under control.
The footsteps behind her were quiet, but she knew who they belonged to before she opened her eyes.
"You shouldn't be here." Her voice came out rough. "Someone might come around the corner."
"Everyone's watching the silent auction." Isla moved closer, close enough that Marianne could smell her perfume, somethingrich and warm that she had never noticed before. "I had to see you."
"That wasn't the plan."
"I know." Isla's hand came up to rest against the wall beside Marianne's head. "I don't care."
"Isla..."
"I've been watching you all night. Watching you smile at people who bore you, watching you make small talk about hospital politics, watching you pretend that I'm just another colleague." Isla's voice dropped, taking on a dangerous quality. "Do you have any idea how hard it's been to keep my distance?"
"Of course I know." Marianne's composure was cracking. She could feel it, feel all her careful control slipping away under the pressure of Isla's proximity. "I've been fighting the same thing."
"Then stop fighting."
Isla kissed her.
The contact was electric, immediate, overwhelming. Marianne's back hit the wall as Isla pressed against her, and she heard herself make a sound that was part moan, part surrender. Her hands came up to grip Isla's shoulders, pulling her closer, abandoning every rule they had ever made.
"We can't," she gasped between kisses. "Not here. Someone will?—"
"Service closet." Isla was already pulling her toward a door Marianne hadn't noticed. "Five minutes. No one will miss us."
The closet was small and cramped, full of cleaning supplies and spare linens. Marianne barely registered the surroundings. She was too focused on Isla's hands bunching the fabric of her gown, on Isla's mouth against her throat, on the desperate urgency that had replaced every careful boundary.
"This is insane," she whispered.
"I know." Isla's fingers found the slit in Marianne's dress and slid upward. "Tell me to stop."
"I can't."
"Then let me touch you."
Marianne's head fell back against a shelf as Isla's hand found its destination. The angle was awkward, the space confined, but none of that mattered. Isla's fingers moved with the same precision she brought to surgery, reading Marianne's responses and adjusting with expert attention.
"You're so wet." Isla's breath was hot against her ear. "You've been thinking about this all night, haven't you?"
"Yes." The word came out broken. "God, yes."
