FREYA CARTER
The music was soft enough to be considered sophisticated and loud enough to make conversation mildly inconvenient.
I stood beside Rowan, a flute of something sparkling in my hand, nodding at people whose names I had already forgotten. Screens flashed product demos in looping perfection sleek gadgets, polished presentations, executives pretending they had personally soldered each circuit.
I leaned slightly toward Rowan.
“How do you attend things like this all the time?”
He didn’t look at me immediately. He was watching a man across the room cataloging him, most likely. Assessing value.
“Attend things like what?” he asked calmly.
“Corporate purgatory,” I muttered slowly and only he could hear
That earned me a side glance. I continued before I lost courage. “If I had to s
