The song ends, but the tension doesn’t.
Applause rises around us as if nothing sharp was just thrown at my feet. Dante eases us out of the final turn and releases my hand with a small bow as the quartet slides seamlessly into the next piece.
He looks composed.
I feel like my insides have been shaken in a jar.
“We were supposed to be married, remember?”
The words echo with every clap.
I pull my hand back the second courtesy allows, step away half a pace.
“I need a drink,” I say.
He studies my face, eyes narrowing just a fraction, then nods once. A small muscle jumps in his jaw; it’s the only sign anything got under his skin.
“Stay where I can see you,” he murmurs.
The command rankles.
“Try not to misplace me this time,” I say, then turn before he can answer.
I slip toward the ed
