The rest of the gala is a blur.
We step back into the bright world of music and money like nothing happened. His hand returns to my back, his face smooths out, and my mouth reshapes itself into something that passes for a smile.
No one knows that down the hall, we were trying to hurt each other with our mouths and failing and succeeding at the same time.
On the drive home, I stare out the window.
City lights smear into streaks against the dark glass. The car smells like leather and his cologne. He sits on the opposite side of the back seat, jacket off, shirt collar loosened, watching me in the reflection more than directly.
He doesn’t touch me.
He doesn’t say anything.
Good.
Talking would make it worse.
When we pull up to the villa, the night is thick and quiet around the stone wa
