Hair a little damp from the heat outside.
I feel it immediately—that little flicker of I don’t belong here.
But Benji doesn’t let go of my hand.
Doesn’t hesitate.
Doesn’t even notice.
Or if he does?
He doesn’t care.
“Oh, shit,” he mutters suddenly. “Gotta say hi to this guy.”
Before I can ask who, he’s already guiding me across the lobby.
Toward a couple that looks like they stepped out of a billionaire’s gala.
Black tie.
Perfect posture.
The kind of effortless wealth you don’t fake.
“Benji Gunner?” the man says, surprise flickering across his face. “That you?”
“Sammy Ramirez,” Benji replies, gripping his hand.
Something about the name rings a bell, but I can’t place it.
“This is my wife, Esme,” Benji adds.
The word lands differently this time.
Stronger.
Public.
Real.
“Very nice to meet you,” the man says, smiling, but he makes no move to shake my hand, which I kind of appreciate. “This is my wife, Aella.”
She turns to me—and her smile lights up her whole face.
“I love those jeans,” she says immediately.
I blink.
“Uh—thank you?”
But then she leans in a little closer.
Studies me.
And her eyes go wide.
“Oh my God,” she breathes. “I know you.”
