Emily's POV
The house was quiet except for the gentle clinking of cutlery as Jenkins arranged plates of breakfast. I tried to pick up my napkin, hoping my hands would stop trembling, but every time I remembered the moment in Victor's study, our faces inches apart, his breath mingling with mine, the way he'd frozen when that phone rang, my heart tried to climb into my throat all over again.
The almost-kiss somehow felt more intimate than the performance at the gala, more dangerous because it hadn't been for show.
Jenkins placed a glass jug of milk on the opposite side of the table. As I turned to thank him, I saw Victor wheeling into the dining room from the hallway.
He looked different this morning. Not cold. Not withdrawn. Just... aware. His gaze found me immediately, lingering in a way that felt almost questioning, as though he too had replayed last night more times than he cared to admit.
Our eyes met.
