He came toward me. No hesitation. No performance. Just those silent, deliberate steps closing the distance between us while my pulse climbed into my throat.
“Sky.”
My name in his voice after two months nearly undid me on the spot.
“Roman.”
He searched my face. “Are you all right?”
I gave him the truth because apparently I had lost the ability to lie to him. “No.”
Something in him tightened. “Neither am I.”
The relief of hearing it was so sharp it hurt.
Before I could say anything, a manicured hand slid over his forearm.
Valentina.
Beautiful. Composed. Perfectly timed.
She smiled at me with cool satisfaction. “Sky. I didn’t realize you’d be here.”
“Clearly.”
Her fingers remained on Roman’s arm.
He did not remove them quickly enough.
That was all it took.
The old wound split open with humiliating ease.
I stepped back. “Good night.”
“Sky—”
But I was already turning away, crossing the ballroom with every ounce of control I possessed, refusing to run only because running would have felt like surrender.
I left after ten minutes.
At eleven-thirty, my father called.
His voice was strange. Steady, but only because it had been shaken so thoroughly it had passed through fear and out the other side.
“I told him.”
I sat upright in bed. “Told who what?”
“Roman Castelli.”
Cold swept through me.
