I shrug to myself and rejoin the party, because I know my absence will be clocked by three relatives and one annoying ex-wife, and I don’t want to hear about it.
Wherever the woman in red is, I hope she knows she is missed.
3
PERRY
I don’t reenterthe party like a normal person.
Normal people use doors meant for guests. I slip in through a narrow service entrance I clocked earlier, the kind hidden behind heavy drapes and false walls, designed for people who aren’t supposed to be remembered. In short, it’s for staff.
My heels are already back on, my mask adjusted, my red dress smoothed like I’ve never left. The house swallows me whole.
Music rolls through the ballroom in a slow, decadent wave, champagne laughter bubbling at the edges. I take a moment just inside the threshold, letting my eyes adjust, letting the room reacquaint itself with me. Reentry is important. You don’t want anyone tracking your movements too cleanly. You want a little doubt. A littlewhat-the-hell-was-that.
Mystery is an investment. It makes people ask questions, and Jason deserves to be the one without answers.
I spot Damian almost immediately, exactly where I expect him to be—parked at the edge of the ballroom, half in shadow, watching everything instead of participating. He looks likea man who could vanish if he wanted to, which is ironic considering who he is.
Silver fox doesn’t even begin to cover it.
His tux fits like it was tailored by the gods. Broad shoulders, lean waist, the kind of body that tells me he didn’t give up just because he hit a certain age. His hair is silver in a deliberate way, styled like he knows it works for him. And his eyes—Jesus—bright blue, alert, sharp, the kind that miss nothing.
He’s looking for something. Or someone.
A thrill settles low in my stomach. If I played my cards right, he’s looking for me.
I don’t go straight to him. I drift first, letting the music catch me, letting my body move like I’m just another guest swept up in the night. I glide across the dance floor diagonally, long dress flowing, slit flashing just enough thigh to turn heads without begging for attention.
I don’t look at him. I let him look at me first. Let him think he’s caught me.
Slowly, I turn my head to see him and smile. When I reach him, I don’t stop. I turn smoothly, extend my hand, and let the moment breathe for half a second before I speak. “Dance with me.”
He blinks, genuinely caught off guard. Then recognition sparks.
It’s subtle but unmistakable—the way his posture shifts, the way his gaze sharpens, the slow curve of his mouth as realization hits. His blue eyes light up like I’ve just solved a puzzle he didn’t know he’d been working on.
“Why did you climb out the window?”
“Did I?” I reply with an unbroken smile.
He laughs and takes my hand without hesitation, and steps onto the dance floor with me like this is exactly where he’s supposed to be. As we fall into rhythm, his hand settles at my waist. Not grabbing. Leading.
His voice drops just enough to feel private. “You disappeared.”
I smile up at him. “I reappeared.”
He studies my face like he’s trying to figure me out.
I lean in slightly, just close enough for trouble. “Try to keep up.”
And just like that, we’re moving together—two strangers in masks, music curling around us, the night stretching wide and dangerous and very, very promising.
The music slows into something syrupy and indulgent, all bass and breath, and Damian adjusts his hand at my waist like he’s testing a theory. Not squeezing. Not claiming. Just…settling. Like he’s decided this is where it belongs for the length of the song.
We move together easily, bodies finding a rhythm that feels unreasonably intimate for two people who haven’t exchanged names. His frame is solid with a quiet kind of strength. When I glance up, those blue eyes are fixed on me with open curiosity. Not hunger—yet—but interest. Definitely interest.
“You’re very confusing,” he says, conversational, as if we’re not pressed close enough for his thigh to slide between mine when the music dips.
