3
Zara
The champagne burned in the back of my throat, and I welcomed it.
I didn’t come to the event for the speeches or the people. I didn’t care about Victor’s client’s anniversary party or the whispers behind bejeweled hands. I came because it was late, and I needed an excuse to slip out of the house in a dress short enough to raise questions.
Victor barely noticed.
He spent most of the evening three conversations deep, nodding at numbers I didn’t care to understand. I, on the other hand, stayed near the open bar, letting glass after glass numb the edges of my thoughts until they weren’t thoughts anymore, just images.
Images of Michael’s hands. Images of his eyes in the rearview mirror. Images of the way his fingers had curled very tight around the steering wheel when I’d parted my
