Amber’s eyes flash. “You’re being difficult on purpose.”
“I’m being clear. I thought that’s what reasonable adults do.” I step back, reclaiming space. “Go dance with Meron. Enjoy the party. Have your lawyers email mine about the cabin.”
“Damian—”
I don’t wait for her response. I don’t offer reassurance or soften the dismissal. I simply turn away, relief washing through me the second the distance grows.
The woman in red is moving toward the terrace doors now, slow and deliberate, as if she knows someone is watching. She doesn’t look back. Doesn’t need to.
I like her confidence.
Something tightens in my chest, curiosity sharpening into intent. I don’t know who she is. I don’t know why she’s here. But I want to find out.
I lose sight of her near the terrace doors. Not because she disappears—because the room shifts. Someone steps into my path. Laughter crests. The music swells, and for a moment, the party reasserts itself, demanding attention.
I don’t give it any. I angle left, then right, moving with purpose now, no longer pretending this is a coincidence. Red wanted my attention. I’m sure of it.
I pass staff who glance at me with recognition and step aside. The perks of being a Baylock are usually an irritation. Tonight, they’re useful. The terrace doors stand open, cold air spilling in, snow dusting the threshold. She’s not there.
Interesting.
I scan quickly, the way I would in the trauma bay when a patient’s vitals take a turn—fast, efficient. Where would she go if she wanted to be seen leaving without actually leaving?
The answer comes to me as easily as a diagnosis. The side corridor.
I pivot, cutting across the ballroom instead of skirting it, no longer concerned with subtlety. People notice this time. They always do when you stop playing your assigned role. I feel eyes on me—my mother’s, perhaps, or Jason’s—but I don’t slow.
I catch a flash of red near the far wall, silk slipping through a narrower passage like a secret.There you are.
The corridor is quieter, the noise of the party muffled to a distant thrum. The lighting is softer here, warmer, meant for private conversations and discreet exits. She walks ahead of me, unhurried, heels clicking softly against the floor.
I don’t rush. Rushing would suggest desperation. Instead, I match her pace, letting the distance between us narrow naturally, inevitably. My pulse is steady, but something unfamiliar coils low in my chest—anticipation without agenda, curiosity without justification.
She stops at the intersection of two hallways, turning slightly, just enough for me to see her profile. Still masked. Still anonymous.
She doesn’t look at me for a long moment, and then she does, slow and deliberate, and for the first time I face her directly without mirrors or distance or pretense. The mask hides part of her face, but not her eyes. Those are sharp. Assessing. Entirely too aware.
“Do you follow everyone who leaves a room, or am I special?”
“Where are you heading?”
Her lips curve slightly. Not a smile. A challenge. “The powder room. Where can I find it?”
“Two doors down to the left. Can’t miss it.”
A sly smile tugs at her lips. “Thank you for being my tour guide.” With that, she leaves a trail of sweet vanilla scent and disappears down the hall.
I should let her go. Instead, I wait.
But she doesn’t come out again for quite some time. After ten minutes, I decide to check on her—my training kicking in. If she’s ill, there’s no sense in not helping her.
I knock, but there’s no answer. Loudly, I tell her, “I’m coming in.”
The door isn’t locked, and when I open it, the curtains blow in the cold breeze.
An involuntary laugh escapes me, much like the woman in red. I can’t believe she left. Was she a thief who got what she came for? A seductress who lost her nerve?
A figment of my imagination?
