The low hum of the ocean mixed with the distant chatter from the ballroom as Rosalind stood frozen, her heart pounding.
The man beside her—mysterious, confident, and far too familiar with her past—was watching her with quiet amusement.
"Still not going to buy me that drink?" he asked, tilting his head.
Rosalind exhaled, regaining her composure. "I don’t drink with strangers."
"Strangers?" He chuckled. "You wound me, Venom Rose."
She stiffened again at the name. No one had called her that in years, and yet here he was, tossing it around like an old acquaintance.
"Who are you?" she asked, this time her voice lower, controlled.
The man smirked, but before he could answer, a voice cut through the air.
"Rosalind?"
Her stomach clenched at the sound of Tristan Bajusz's voice.
She turned
