The tension in the ballroom was thick enough to choke on. The scattered glass shimmered under the chandelier’s glow, but the real spectacle was the two men standing at the center of the storm—Tristan Bajusz and Nicholas Rivera.
Rosalind’s heels clicked against the marble floor as she stepped closer. Every movement was calculated, every breath controlled. Nicholas had been waiting for this moment, but so had she.
“You’re making quite the mess, Rivera,” she said smoothly, folding her arms. “Or is this just your way of getting attention?”
Nicholas turned at the sound of her voice, and for a split second, something flickered in his eyes—shock? Intrigue? He recovered fast, his smirk returning. “Well, well. Look who decided to finally stop running.”
Tristan’s jaw clenched at the way Nicholas
