Chapter 8

The air in the Grand Hall of the St. James Library had grown thick, not just with the scent of expensive perfume and old leather-bound volumes, but with the heavy, electric hum of anticipation. I stood near the towering oak paneling, a flute of champagne sweating in my hand, watching the crowd flow around me like a river around a stone. They were the elite of the city—critics with sharp eyes, publishers with sharper tongues, and socialites who wore their wealth like armor. But none of them knew the truth. None of them knew that beneath my tailored silk dress and composed demeanor, my skin was still tingling from his touch, that my knees were weak from the memory of his weight, and that my heart beat a frantic, guilty rhythm against my ribs every time I glanced at him. He was across the room, holding court. Julian. Even in a tuxedo that cost more than my first car, he looked like a predator in his natural habitat. He laughed at a joke made by a senior editor, a low, rumbling sound that I felt in my chest rather than heard. I caught his eye over the shoulder of a