“No.” I look him over once, deliberately. “The devil plans better.”
Dax actually chokes on his drink.
Bron closes his eyes for half a second and laughs under his breath, low and disbelieving. “Gods.”
“What?”
“I forgot what it’s like when you’re mad at me.”
My voice goes velvet-cold. “Then let me refresh your memory. You do not get to be pleased that I’m still memorable. You do not get to walk up to me after years and act like this issome charming twist in your evening. And you certainly do not get to assume I’m interested in being charmed.”
He opens his eyes.
“I know,” he says.
There it is again. That infuriating sincerity. Not arguing. Not dodging.
JustI know.
I want him easier than this. Easier to hate cleanly. Easier to dismiss. I want him shallow and glib and unchanged so I can put him back in the box labeledmistakeand nail it shut.
Instead he’s standing here looking at me like he’s just found something he lost and knows better than to reach for it too fast.
Unacceptable.
I straighten, take one step back from the table, and smooth my expression into something fit for cameras and sponsors and polite public murder.
“This conversation is over,” I say.
Dax takes that as his cue to retreat entirely. Smart man. Sonya lingers half a beat longer, eyes flicking to me in a silentyou good?
No, I think.
Out loud I say, “Fine.”
A lie. But a graceful one.
Bron’s gaze drops to my face, searching for something I refuse to give him. “Tilda?—”
I cut him off with a look sharp enough to skin bark.
He stops.
Good.
I dip my chin just enough to qualify as civility. “Enjoy the reception.”
Then I turn and walk away before my legs can reconsider, before the room can tilt, before I can do the unforgivable thing and look back.
Behind me, I can feel it—the drag of his attention, hot and heavy between my shoulder blades. Nearby conversations hush, then resume with the hungry little snap of people pretending they didn’t just witness an emotional detonation in formalwear.
By the time I reach the far side of the hall, my hands are shaking.
I curl them around a fresh glass of water from a passing tray and stand near the windows until the trembling eases enough that I trust myself not to throw it.
Outside, Fratvoy’s evening sky has deepened to cobalt. The compound glows below in lines of silver and gold, arenas lit like altars, walkways gleaming, cameras drifting.
I stare out at it and breathe.
