The rain had stopped an hour ago, but the Starlight Gardens still smelled like it was waiting for another storm.
Miles adjusted his cufflinks and caught his reflection in the glass. Sharp suit, calm expression, a man curated for success. On paper he looked like someone celebrating an engagement, yet inside he felt like a live wire trapped in a glass cage.
Christy's laughter rippled across the hall, bright and honeyed and hollow. She was stunning tonight, every detail curated to broadcast triumph. The future Mrs. Vance, perfect optics and a perfect trophy, and Miles was supposed to be the man who had everything.
He signaled the waiter for another drink. The champagne was too sweet and clung to his tongue like a lie.
"Scotch," he said instead, his voice lower than intended.
