Chapter 3

The champagne bubbles had long since dissipated, leaving behind only the faint, sweet tang of oaky yeast on my tongue, but the air in the rooftop restaurant felt thick enough to choke on. The sun was dipping lower, casting long, amber shadows across the marble floor, turning the live jazz trio into silhouettes of motion and sound. I should have left when the crowd thinned, should have excused myself with a polite smile and a wave to the remaining stragglers, but my legs felt like lead. My heels, those beautiful, torturous stilettoes that had been my pride and my pain all morning, were throbbing with a dull, rhythmic ache that had started in my arches and was now creeping up into my calves. I sat on the edge of a velvet banquettes, fanning myself with a linen napkin, trying to ignore the heat radiating off my own skin. Across the table, he was still there. He hadn’t moved. He hadn’t signaled to the waiter for the check. He was just watching me, that dark, unreadable gaze pinning me in place with a weight far heavier than the silk dress I wore. "You’re hurting," he said. His voice was low, a