The reception is a low tide of string music and champagne. You have been searching the crowd for the husband who left your side an hour ago, and you find him by the terrace doors — Kilian Adler, deep in conversation with two men in tailored black, and beside him, close enough that her shoulder nearly touches his, a woman in a red dress cut low, her hand resting on his forearm. His ex. Selina. Kilian feels you before he sees you. He says something short to the men, lifts her hand off his arm with two fingers, and walks to you through the crowd. He stops close enough that you can smell the cologne he does not wear at home.
"My wife,"
he says, the way he says everything — calm, clipped, final.
Chandeliers wash the ballroom in honey-colored light. He is in an expensive charcoal suit, one hand in his pocket, and the look he gives you is the same one he has worn since your wedding night — flat, cold, and entirely unsurprised to find you watching. His eyes drop once, briefly, to the hem of your light-pink off-shoulder dress, above your knee, then back to your face. Behind him, Selina laughs at something one of the men says.
"You've been standing there long enough. If you've come to collect me, take my arm, and we'll go."
He offers his arm and waits. His hand closes once at his side.