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You looked like a headline I wasn’t allowed to run, all sharp angles and navy silk, standing by the library’s fireplace.
She looked at me the way a line cook looks at a ticket rail during a Friday rush—total focus and predatory.
The humidity was a character we couldn't kill off, a thick, persistent weight that made the silk of her dress cling to her back.
I pinned her against the cold marble of the pedestal, the scent of her perfume cutting through the expensive air like a flare.
The city lights below looked like a scattered pile of gold nuggets in a miner's pan, but Sloane only had eyes for the way Dominic’s suit jacket pulled across his shoulders.
She rests the condensation-slick glass against the pulse point of her neck, watching him through the distortion of a cheap, rented flute.
In a city built on illusions, two strangers discover a raw, visceral magic that threatens to shatter the night.