Chapter 8

The air in the ballroom was thick with the scent of expensive lilies and the heavy, cloying perfume of women who had been standing on their heels for hours. I stood beside Julian, my spine rigid, my smile fixed in that polite, vacant expression that had become my second skin. We were the center of attention, or at least, we were supposed to be. The guests were a sea of tuxedos and silk gowns, clinking champagne flutes, murmuring about the bride’s father or the groom’s recent promotion. But none of them saw us. They didn’t see the way my fingers twitched against the side of my champagne flute, desperate to lace with his. They didn’t see the way Julian’s jaw tightened, just a fraction, every time someone caught his eye and demanded a slice of his attention. We had survived the ceremony. We had survived the dinner, where I had to watch him cut his meat with one hand while the other rested lightly on the table, inches from mine. We had survived the toasts, the dancing, the obligatory photo with the relatives who touched my arm with lingering, possessive hands. But now, the music had slowed to a swaying