The music from the ballroom had become a distorted, pulsing thrum, like a heartbeat heard through water. Amara found herself drifting through the outskirts of the gala, her silver heels sinking into the plush, damask carpeting as she tried to outrun the ringing in her ears. Theron's voice kept looping in her mind.
"Don't be so dense, Amara. That is a man who is a thousand percent jealous."
She'd almost laughed in his face when he said it. The Great Dragon? The titan of industry who barely blinked at billion-dollar losses, feeling threatened by a guy in a denim jacket who smelled like espresso and old library books? It seemed like a plot from a particularly bad afternoon soap opera. Yet, as she replayed the icy car ride and the way Darien's jaw had turned to granite when the second Hansen's name was mentioned, the absurdity started to melt away. Theron wasn't the type to misread the room; he was practically the architect of the room.
