The sound of breaking crystal cut through the party chatter like a gunshot. Conversations stopped mid-sentence as two hundred of Manhattan's most powerful people turned to stare at Sterling Prescott—the man who never lost control, never showed weakness, never allowed emotion to c***k his perfectly composed facade—standing in a puddle of champagne and blood from his cut palm.
"Sterling!" I lunged forward, grabbing his wrist to examine the damage while simultaneously shifting Eddie away from the glass shards. The cut wasn't deep, but it was bleeding freely, drops of crimson staining his pristine white shirt cuff.
"I'm fine." His voice came out rough, strained. "It's nothing."
"It's not nothing." I pressed my napkin against the cut, noting how his hand trembled almost imperceptibly. Sterli
