Part 2: The string quartet shifted into a slower song, as if the universe had a flair for timing.

Meredith blinked.

“I’m sorry?”

“Dance,” I repeated, holding out my hand. “With me. Unless you have strong objections to men who step on feet under pressure.”

Her mouth parted, then curved just enough to make my pulse do something unprofessional.

“I do have standards,” she said.

“I was afraid of that.”

“Can you count to four?”

“Usually under supervision.”

For one suspended second, the hurt in her face gave way to amusement. Not gratitude. Not relief.

Amusement.

Like she had decided I might be worth testing.

Then she placed her hand in mine.

Her fingers were cool.

Mine were not.

The moment our hands touched, I became aware of every ridiculous detail—the softness of her palm, the faint scent of orange blossom, the way her eyes searched mine, not asking whether I was rescuing her, but whether I understood the cost of being seen.

I led her onto the dance floor.

People noticed.

Of course they did.

The room did that subtle turning thing rich people do when they want to stare without admitting it. Meredith glanced over my shoulder.

“You know they’re watching.”

“Yes.”

“You enjoy public pressure?”
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