The ballroom became suffocating long before Alex admitted it.
It wasn’t the crowd itself. She was used to crowds, to attention, to the constant undercurrent of judgment that came with both. But something about this particular room pressed in differently. Every conversation carried layers, every glance lingered with intention, and every smile seemed to conceal a question no one was willing to ask outright.
She lasted another ten minutes after Margaret Ashford dismissed them before deciding she had earned a moment of air.
Callan noticed the shift before she said anything. “You’re thinking about escaping,” he murmured, his voice low enough to disappear beneath the orchestra.
“I’m not thinking about it,” she replied, her gaze fixed somewhere over his shoulder. “I’m planning it.”
The corne
