The taste of him was a ghost on her tongue, a phantom brand. Elara stood frozen in the concrete corridor, the chill of the wall seeping through the silver silk of her gown. The distant hum of the gala felt like a memory from another lifetime. Her body vibrated with the aftershock, part terror, part traitorous, electric thrill.
She had kissed him back.
The horror of it was a cold, sickening wave. It wasn't just a betrayal of Liam, lying broken and trusting in New York. It was a betrayal of the woman she had vowed to become the survivor, the partner, the one who would not be ruled by the dark pull of the past. And yet, when his mouth had claimed hers with that furious desperation, something in her had answered. Something old, deep, and starved.
She pushed off the wall, her legs unsteady.
