Chapter 7

The last thing I remembered was the roar of the crowd, a sea of thousands pressing against the low railing of the rooftop terrace, their voices blending with the crackle of pyrotechnics as the sky erupted in violent bursts of gold and crimson. The air had been thick with humidity and the scent of gunpowder and expensive perfume, a heady cocktail that had made my head spin even before his hands had settled on my hips, pulling me flush against his chest. We had been standing there, shoulders brushing, watching the city below transform into a constellation of lights, when the world seemed to tilt. Not the room, but my head. The heat of his body, the intensity of his gaze, the way he had whispered my name like a prayer against the shell of my ear—it had been too much. A sudden wave of dizziness, a blur of color, and then the hard, comforting surface of the terrace floor, or perhaps a plush velvet chair in the private section, I couldn’t quite recall. Now, morning light, pale and tentative, filtered through the sheer curtains of the penthouse suite, painting stripes of white across the rumpled silk sheets. I blinked,