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“Oh.” I blink. “Right.”

“I’m assuming: intense, communicationally questionable, very expensive sheets.”

I shrug. “I’m not interested.”

“So you keep saying. But if youwere?”

“I’d still be furious about it.”

Lexi laughs again, a sharp glittering thing, and tips her flute toward me.

Then she softens. Just a little. “Hey. You’re okay, right?”

I nod, focusing on the weight of the camera strap across my chest. “Better with you.”

She doesn't look convinced, but she smiles all the same.

“Alright. If you say so. But - text me if you need an emergency. I’ll trip a waiter or throw wine at someone who deserves it.”

“You’d ruin a dress for me?”

“Babe, I’d ruin abloodlinefor you.”

I grin. “Nowthat’stempting.”

She winks, already turning back to her crowd, heels slicing the marble like she owns it, and I’m left facing the ballroom.

*

The scent-neutralizers hum, the board members laugh at something I can’t hear -

And Lucian Vale doesn’t look my way again.

He'sexactlyhow I like my problems: expensive, distant, and ignoring me.

So why the hell can’t I stop looking?

And why is my body vibrating like a tuning fork with the sudden, feral urge to launch myself at him like a heat-drunk moth with no survival instincts?

I shake the thought away. Raise my camera again.

Back to work. Back tosanity.

Orchids. Floating candles. Napkins folded into tiny birds that probably took some poor intern six hours and a minor existential crisis.

Click.

Soft focus. Clean composition.

Beautiful. Forgettable. Perfect for disappearing.

Click. Smile.

Breathe.

But the air still hasn’t settled. There’s a buzz in my skull; my instincts banging pots and pans in a language Ialmostunderstand.

I move again. Find a new angle. Pretend I’m focused. Pretend my palms aren’t damp on the camera grip and that I’m not seconds away from hyperventilating into a bread basket.

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