Chapter 3

The air in the grand hall was thick, heavy with the scent of old paper, beeswax, and the low, humid breath of two hundred bodies pressed close together. It was a sensory overload that should have been overwhelming, yet under his gaze, it felt like a cocoon. I had spent the better part of the afternoon wandering through the vintage fair, my fingers brushing against the velvet of brocade coats and the cold, smooth glass of antique perfume bottles. But now, the noise had dampened into a hum, the string lights overhead casting a warm, amber glow over the scattered clusters of people who had lingered past the main dance set. He was there, leaning against a pillar draped in ivy, watching me. Not with the polite, distant courtesy of a stranger, but with the predatory, patient stillness of a man who knows exactly where his prey is going to trip. I should have walked away. I should have found my friends, my group of girls who had drifted off to inspect a display of Victorian jewelry. Instead, I found myself walking toward him, my heels clicking a hesitant rhythm against the polished concrete floor. "You look tired, baby girl,"