Georgia's POV
The foyer glitters like a jewelry box filled with paste diamonds.
Wealthy people discussing poverty as if it were an abstract painting they'd consider buying if it matched their couch.
I drift through them, a specter tethered to the living world only by Josiah's possessive fingers digging into my waist.
His grip leaves impressions like cigarette burns, invisible to everyone but me.
Twenty minutes in, and he's deep in conversation with some senator.
I stand beside him, my face arranged in the attentive expression I've practiced until my cheeks ache.
Smile. Nod. Look engaged. Don't let them see the void.
Then I see him again.
Carlisle Brocandale.
His presence slices through the room's white noise like a knife through silk.
He stands with that effortless grace that comes from knowing exactly what you're worth.
When he turns and our eyes collide, the air between us compresses into something dense and dangerous.
I should look away. Should remember the monster I married is safer than the one I don't know.
But what if he isn't a monster? What if he's a lifeline? What if he's both?
I hold his gaze instead.
Something feral unfurls in my chest. Possibility. Choice. Want.
A hunger so fierce it threatens to devour me from the inside out.
He lifts his glass in a gesture so subtle it could be denied. A question hanging in the charged air between us.
"Darling."
Josiah's fingers dig deeper. I flinch before I can swallow the reaction.
"You seem distracted."
I manufacture a smile. "Just a bit warm in here."
He studies me with eyes like ice picks, before pressing his lips to my temple.
Marking his territory, not showing affection.
"Come," he commands, fingers tightening until I feel bones shift.
"Time to make our rounds."
I nod, obedient as the beaten dog I've become.
You're pathetic. When did you become this hollow thing?
But as he leads me away, I steal one final glance.
Carlisle is still watching me, his eyes burning with something I've forgotten existed.
Interest.
Not in what I can do for him, not in what I represent, but in me.
Josiah thrives in these cesspools of ambition and greed.
He moves through conversations like a shark through chum-rich waters.
His laughter precisely calibrated, his presence magnetic in that way that makes your skin crawl even as you lean closer.
Men bend toward him when he speaks. Women simper despite the cruel edge in his smile.
For all his perception, for all his razor-sharp awareness of others' weaknesses, he remains blind to me.
To the hollow space I've become beneath my designer dress and carefully applied makeup.
You're disappearing, one day at a time.
I drift away from him, molecule by molecule, until I stand by the grand windows.
The air feels cleaner here, away from the stench of power and old money.
I sip champagne, bubbles sharp against my tongue like tiny knives.
And let my gaze wander until it catches on him again.
Carlisle.
Engaged in conversation yet oddly separate, amused by the circus while refusing to join the clowns.
Then, like gravity asserting itself, he looks up.
Our eyes lock, and this time there's intent behind his gaze.
A hunger that mirrors the ache spreading through my chest.
He excuses himself and moves toward me with deliberate grace.
I should walk away. Should remember my place.
This is how women like you end up dead.
Instead, I wait, heart hammering against my ribs.
"You seem to be in need of a refill," he says, offering me champagne.
His voice is rough silk, a sound designed to leave marks on your memory.
I hesitate.
Taking champagne from a stranger isn't scandalous. And yet, there's weight to it.
Intention in him noticing my empty glass when my husband can't be bothered to notice I exist.
I take it. Our fingers brush.
A second of contact that sends electricity racing up my arm.
"Thank you," I murmur.
Carlisle smiles like he can taste my pulse quickening.
"You don't seem to be enjoying the evening."
I laugh, soft and controlled.
"I don't suppose many people enjoy these events. They endure them."
"Ah, but some endure them better than others."
"And you? Enduring or enjoying?"
A mischievous glint transforms his face.
"That depends."
"On?"
"Whether or not I find good conversation."
"And have you?"
He sips before answering.
"I have a feeling I might."
There it is. That current running beneath his words, transforming innocent small talk into foreplay.
He's dangerous. The kind of man who makes destruction feel like salvation.
"What makes conversation good to you, Lord Brocandale?"
His smile deepens but never reaches his eyes.
"Honesty, for one. But that's a rare commodity at gatherings like these."
"Then you must be sorely disappointed tonight."
"Not yet," he murmurs.
Simple words. Harmless on paper.
But the way he says them, like a promise wrapped in a threat, unspools something inside me that's been tightly wound for years.
For the first time since I signed my marriage certificate, I feel blood rushing through my veins instead of ice water.
And that terrifies me more than Josiah's cold fury ever could.