Sofia stood frozen just beyond the edge of the ballroom, her hand trembling slightly around the stem of her empty glass. Laughter echoed in the distance. Soft jazz spilled from the chandeliers like a lie, and every fiber in her body screamed one thing:
Get out.
She couldn't breathe here—not when Adam kept vanishing into shadows, not when his every glance was laced with heat yet followed by silence. Not when he could touch her like she mattered behind closed doors... only to disappear when she reached for him in the light.
She wasn't built for this kind of war.
Torn between staying to uphold the perfect illusion—or walking away before her heart shattered in front of Beatrice and everyone else—she scanned the room like a drowning woman searching for an anchor.
Then she saw him. Tristan.
He was laughing with a group of executives near the bar, but his smile faded the moment their eyes met. She moved toward him like a storm.
"Tristan," she whispered—desperate, furious, broken.
