Later, after more toasts that taste like varnish, Dominic excuses himself and someone—Angel—follows. My stomach gives a small, ugly lurch that feels like resentment and real fear braided together.
He leads her to the conservatory, a glass jewel tucked behind the main hall where citrus trees smell like the tropics and the night presses cold against the panes. No one else bothers to cross the threshold; the conservatory is an island where secrets bloom. I linger by the doorway, pretending to admire an orchid, but my eyes betray me: Dominic and Angel move like two magnets drawn together.
They talk quietly. I can’t hear the words, only the subtext of him asking what her interest is and the way she answers with the hush of a conspiracy. Dominic’s face is slow to change—curiosity first, then a
