“This is my dance,” the woman says, voice tight and clipped. “You owe me.”
I step back immediately, palms lifting in a gesture that saysnot my fight,not my mess. I don’t need to look at her face to know exactly who she is. There’s a particular brand of entitlement that doesn’t require an introduction.
The ex-wife. I’ve seen pictures of Jason’s mom, but they don’t do her justice. She’s stunning. Ash-blond hair, cut in a severe bob. Cold brown eyes. Angular in every direction, the woman is rail thin. She has the countenance of a runway model who is hell-bent on scoring the next big job. Calculating and icy.
Instead of confronting her, I merely smile and silently step back.
Damian, on the other hand, doesn’t move. Not an inch.
The music swells around us, couples shifting seamlessly into the next song, but we’re locked in place—me on one side, her on the other, him at the center of it like the axis of a problem he’s clearly tired of solving.
“I’m not dancing with you, Amber,” he says, flat and unmistakable.
She blinks, clearly not expecting that. Her grip tightens, nails pressing through fabric. “Don’t make a scene.”
“I’m not doing anything,” he replies. “I said no.”
There’s a flicker of something ugly across her face—surprise giving way to indignation, then a sharp, practiced smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. She glances at me then, really looks at mefor the first time, gaze raking over my dress, my mask, the space I still occupy far too close to her ex-husband for her comfort. “And who is this?”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to.
Damian shifts, subtly but decisively, placing himself half a step closer to me and away from her. It’s not protective exactly, but it is definitive. A choice made without discussion. “That’s not your concern.”
Her mouth opens, then closes. Around us, people are starting to notice. Curious glances flicker our way. Whispers ripple. Amber stiffens, clearly recalibrating. She drops his arm with a sharp motion, smoothing her mask, lifting her chin like she’s regained control. Her smile could kill. “Have it your way.”
She turns on her heel and stalks off, gold and ego trailing behind her like an afterimage. The space she leaves behind feels…lighter.
I shrug. “Occupational hazard of dancing with interesting men.”
A corner of his mouth lifts, and he laughs. It’s small, and he looks surprised by it. “After all that, you flatter me?”
“I only tell the truth.”The better to lie to you.
We stand there for a beat, the music rolling on without us, the night pressing forward. I can feel the question sitting between us, heavy and obvious.
I tilt my head toward the staircase, voice dropping just enough to feel conspiratorial. “If you’re trying to avoid a repeat performance of hers,” I say lightly, “there are places in this house she definitely won’t look.”
His gaze follows mine, then returns to my face, something dangerous and amused sparking there. “Like where?”
“I know a spot.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Lead the way.”
I don’t grab his hand. I start walking.
That’s the rule tonight—no rushing, no clinging, no obvious need. I head for the staircase like I’ve done this a thousand times, like this is my house and he’s the one trying to keep up. The dress sways with every step, and I feel his presence behind me immediately, close and deliberate.
This dress was a very good investment, and it’s about to pay off. The thought warms me more than it should.
The grand staircase is busy, but busy in a way that works in our favor. Couples are filtering upward, laughter spilling, masks slipping just enough to blur identities. I blend us into the movement, angling toward the narrower landing I memorized earlier—the one that leads to the quieter wing. The one with the visiting family members’ bedrooms.
“You’re very confident,” he murmurs.
I glance at him sideways. “You followed me. No reason not to be.”
His mouth curves. “Fair.”
We reach the landing, and I don’t slow, turning into the side corridor without looking back. The noise of the party drops off immediately, replaced by hush and warm light and the faint echo of music through thick walls. The house feels different up here—less performative, more private.
