And she’s still here.
She didn’t leave, but she didn’t come and find me. She didn’t slap me or yell at me.
She didn’t destroy my career on my first night at a Company social.
But she’s still…here.
“I’ll see you at work on Monday,” I tell Rita sharply, then stride through the bar.
“Good night, Alex,” Maria calls from behind me, drawing the eyes of those in earshot. That’s half of the people in this room, but I don’t care.
I walk through to the grand hall, barely conscious of those I pass. My eyes search every face but move on. I know where she’ll be, because the music hasn’t stopped. The dance is still going on.
The floor’s busier than when Rita and I were on it. The music’s not a waltz but a slow dance, nice and basic, and couples shuffle around without any skill. I take a few steps up the stairs that overlook it all, using the height advantage to see across the floor.
It takes me a long moment. There are too many people, too many blonds.
Then I spy her. Taller than the women around her. She’s wearing the green dress I bought her in Venicelast year, because it brings out the blue of her eyes. It’s the ideal choice to dance in, and she’s moving quite well. Better than I would’ve thought. Her rhythm is perfect.
The man she’s dancing with has his back to me, but both his hands are on her waist. Hers are on his shoulders. They’re not pressed as close as Rita and I were, but they’re too damn close.
She laughs at something he says. They’re talking while they dance. That’s not easy for a beginner, yet as far as I know, Vicky’s first dance lesson lasted two and a half minutes in her apartment a week ago.
A flicker of pride wars briefly with the rage building inside me, then loses.
I hurry down the steps, catching someone with my shoulder in my haste. But I don’t stop. I walk the perimeter of the floor, anticlockwise. The dancers are moving clockwise with the music, and I knew where she was. I know where she’ll be.
I reach that point. There’re couples between me and her, between me andthem, and I’ve lost sight of her.
A flash of green.
What am I going to do? Cut in? Make a scene?
I want to.Fuckbut I want to.
Possession wars with my control. Howdareshe dance with someone else.
Then I glimpse her through the throng. Or the back of her, at least. Her dress is distinctive, and I know it’s her. But it’s the man she’s dancing with—talkingwith—that gives me pause.
The man with his hands on my fiancée is Lukas Van Wyk.
The music’s drawing to a close. The beat’s slowing, the final bars. The couples break apart, with a smattering of polite applause for the musicians.
I can see Vicky clearly now, but she hasn’t noticed me. She makes a comment to Van Wyk, then laughs at his reply. She looks happy, like it’s a pleasant night out for her.
He leads her off the dance floor with a gallantry I wouldn’t have thought him capable of, and she lays her hand on his arm. A momentary touch, lingering in familiarity.
And I see red.
I push through the crowd, knowing my control is fraying.
The only thought that keeps me sane is that this man has his karambit on him, right now.
“Vicky,” I say as I near her.
She turns to me and her laughter dies. Her blond hair is tied up, her neck bare and vulnerable. She’s wearing the earrings I bought her, and her makeup is delicate and perfectly chosen.
A flicker crosses her eyes before she forces a smile, and it’s not a bad attempt.
