One corner of his mouth curves, then stills. “No,” he concedes. “It isn't.”
And yet the way he watches me suggests he’s already decided otherwise.
He steps back then, allowing the crowd to close the space between us, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Lila appears at my side almost immediately, her eyes bright with curiosity.
“Well,” she murmurs, looping her arm through mine. “That was... informative.”
I manage a small smile. “You're enjoying this way too much.”
“I'm enjoying you being rattled,” she corrects. “Who was that?”
“Kiren Sovarin,” I answer quietly.
Her brows rise. “TheKiren Sovarin?”
I nod once.
“Rowan,” she exhales. “That man doesnotlook like a biomedical executive.”
“No,” I agree. “He doesn’t.”
We drift back toward the cocktail tables, but my attention doesn’t fully follow. I feel it then, unmistakably. I don’t need to turn to know he’s still watching, his awareness brushing against mine like pressure rather than sight.
I tell myself I’ve misread him. That the intensity I sensed belongs to circumstance rather than intent. A crowded room. A shared history. Residual vigilance. But the certainty refuses to loosen its grip. I saved his life. And I’m no longer convinced that’s where our connection ended.
4
KIREN
I remain still as the elevator doors close, my attention fixed on the space she leaves behind. The lounge settles into silence around me, the muted hum from the ballroom below dulled by the thick walls. My hand goes to my ribs without thought, my fingers pressing where the injury answers each breath.
I should leave. Return to the ballroom, make the expected appearances, and acknowledge the donors whose contributions fund the research that keeps Sovarin Biomedical relevant. The gala demands certain performances, and I've mastered them all over the years. The polished smile, the firm handshake, the carefully constructed gratitude that sounds genuine because I've practiced it until it became a reflex. But the idea of rejoining the crowd now feels wrong in a way I can’t articulate, as though the evening has been left unresolved.
I move toward the bar instead and signal the bartender for vodka. When the glass is set in front of me, I take it and lowermyself into a chair with more care than I prefer. The leather gives softly beneath my weight as I adjust, finding an angle that doesn’t irritate the healing tissue. I lift the glass and take a slow sip.
I set it down again and lean back, allowing my spine to rest against the chair while my gaze moves across the empty lounge. The space is designed for discretion, the lighting low enough to soften features without obscuring them entirely. Dark wood paneling lines the walls, interrupted by abstract paintings priced well beyond practical measure. The furniture is expensive without being ostentatious, arranged to facilitate conversation while maintaining an illusion of privacy. It's a room built for transactions disguised as connections, and I've used it exactly as intended more times than I can count. But tonight is different.
I close my eyes briefly, replaying the last hour with the same rigor I apply to interactions worth remembering. Her voice when she told me I shouldn't be on my feet, concern bleeding through the professional distance she tried to maintain. The way her fingers tightened around the champagne flute when she recognized me, her knuckles blanching against the delicate glass. The hitch in her breathing when I stepped closer, her pulse visible at her throat despite the calm she maintained with effort. She was nervous. Not frightened, but alert in a way that suggested her instincts were working overtime to assess the threat I might represent.
I can't fault her for that. She'd be a fool to trust me.
The door opens behind me, footsteps approaching with a familiar cadence that tells me who it is before I turn my head. Mikel moves into my peripheral vision, his expression uninformative as he crosses to the opposite chair and lowers himself into it without invitation.
“She’s been gone ten minutes,” Mikel remarks.
“I’m aware.”
“Then explain why you’re sitting in an empty lounge instead of finishing your night.”
I turn my head to look at him fully, taking in the tension he carries in his shoulders despite the relaxed posture he projects. Mikel doesn't waste words, and he doesn't ask questions unless the answer matters.
“Because leaving felt wrong,” I answer honestly.
His brow lifts slightly, the only indication that my response surprises him. “Wrong how?”
I don't have an answer that makes sense, so I offer the truth instead. “I don't know.”
He studies me for a moment longer before nodding once, a small acknowledgment that he's heard what I'm not saying as much as what I am. “You're making this complicated.”
