We slip past servers, past a display of silent‑auction items, toward a side corridor that leads to restrooms and service stairs.
The lighting is softer here. The music is muffled. Laughter and cutlery clinks seep under the door from the main hall, a bright, distant world we’ve just stepped out of.
I dig my heels in.
“Stop,” I say.
He does.
We’re in a short, shadowed stretch of hallway between two sets of doors, empty except for a disused console table and a potted plant that’s seen better days.
He turns to face me.
His hand still bands my waist.
“Let go,” I repeat, voice low and shaking now.
Instead, he pulls me closer until my back brushes the wall, and his body blocks the view from either end of the corridor.
“This is you being careful?” I demand. “Dragging me into dark corners
