Her breath caught, and I felt the reaction before she could hide it.
“Hayden,” she warned.
“What?” I murmured. “You wanted me to behave.”
“You’re not behaving.”
“I am,” I said, guiding her through the next step. “Barely.”
Her fingers pressed against my shoulder, and fuck, even that small pressure felt like a confession. I lowered my mouth near her ear again, letting my words brush her skin.
“You can go back to his table after this if you want, but don’t expect me to sit there quietly while he looks at you as though he has a right to.”
The song began to fade before she could answer. Around us, couples slowed and separated, applause rising through the room as the orchestra prepared for the next piece. Edwina stepped back at once, so quickly it almost made me smile, as if she had been waiting for the first acceptable second to escape me.
“Thank you,” she said, voice tight. “For the dance.”
I gave a faint smile. “Anytime.”
She did not answer. She turned and walked back toward the table where Giselle and Daniel were still seated, and I followed a moment later, close enough to watch the tension she tried to hide settle into every step.
Whitmore looked up as we approached. “Well,” he said with an easy smile, “that didn’t take long.”
Edwina reached for her champagne, then set it down again without taking a sip. “I think I should go.”
Giselle looked at her. “Already?”
“It’s getting late.”
Daniel nodded. “Of course. Helena must be missing you.”
The name hit me like a stone dropped into still water.
Helena.
Edwina’s face changed before she could stop it. Shock crossed her eyes, fast but clear for me to catch, and the color left her cheeks before rushing back a second later. Whatever that name meant, she did not want me hearing it.
“Y-yes,” she said, recovering too quickly. “I should get back.”
Whitmore, the clueless bastard, noticed nothing. He pushed his chair back and stood. “I can drive you. It’s late anyway.”
Edwina hesitated. “I don’t want to trouble—”
“It’s no trouble,” he said. “I’m heading that way.”
Giselle watched them with interest, her gaze moving to me for half a second before returning to Edwina.
But I was done watching the table.
Helena.
The name stayed in my head, sharp and wrong and suddenly impossible to ignore. Someone Whitmore knew about, while I stood there hearing the name for the first fucking time.
My fingers curled at my side.
Who the hell was Helena?
Edwina had never mentioned that name before, not in Washington, not in all those nights when she used to tell me things she trusted no one else with. The way she reacted now told me enough. The color leaving her face, the stumble in her voice, the rush to recover.
