The winter air had driven most of the guests back inside, leaving only the distant glow of the city and the muted sound of the orchestra filtering through the glass doors.
Polina stood at the railing with her arms folded loosely across her middle. She didn’t turn when I stepped out beside her.
“I was beginning to think you’d decided this was, in fact, a terrible idea.”
“I still think that.”
A corner of her mouth lifted.
“Good. I’d be worried if you didn’t.”
For a moment we stood in silence, looking out over the city.
“This is insane,” she said eventually.
“Probably.”
“You approached my father.”
“I did.”
“You danced with me in front of him.”
“I did that too.”
She shook her head.
“Most people spend years avoiding him.”
“I’m not most people.”
“No,” she said softly. “You’re really not.”
The words settled between us.
The wind shifted, carrying a strand of her hair across her face. I tucked it behind her ear.
A mistake. The kind that could become a problem later.
Her gaze found mine.
Neither of us looked away.
Below us the city glittered, and somewhere behind the glass, the orchestra continued playing for people who were busy being seen.
There were a dozen ways I could have steered this conversation. A dozen careful, professional approaches.
Out here, for the first time all evening, neither of us was performing.
That realization was more dangerous than it should have been.
“Polina. I need something from you.”
Her expression changed immediately. Not closed. Not defensive. Alert.
And there it was.
The reason I hated this.
