Chapter 8

The air in the private cellar had grown thick, heavy with the scent of aged Cabernet and the heavier, sweeter musk of our unspoken tension. We had spent the last three hours navigating the hierarchy of the elite, sipping vintages that cost more than my monthly rent, all while keeping our hands firmly clasped under the long, linen tablecloth. The other guests—men in tailored suits and women in silk that whispered against their skin—had drifted into their own circles, oblivious to the silent conversation passing between us. Every time a waiter passed with a tray of crystal flutes, my fingers would tighten around yours, a subtle check-in, a grounding wire. And every time, your thumb would stroke the inside of my palm, slow and deliberate, sending jolts of electricity straight up my arm and pooling low in my belly. But the night was ending. The cork popper had clicked its final note, the last guest had been ushered out by the sommelier, and we were left alone in the dim glow of the chandelier, the true masters of our domain. It was time to return to the real world, to shed the persona of the wealthy socialite and the powerful