The invitation arrives on cream cardstock that probably costs more than my weekly coffee budget, Sebastian's handwriting precise and deliberately casual: The Ashford Foundation Gala. Saturday. 8 PM. I want you there.

Not I'd like you to attend. Not If you're available.

I want you there.

I stare at it for approximately forty-seven seconds before throwing it in the recycling bin. Then I fish it back out because I'm apparently a masochist with terrible impulse control.

"You're going," Mira announces from my office doorway, holding two lattes and the kind of expression that suggests this isn't a question.

"I'm not."

"You absolutely are." She sets one latte on my desk and leans against the frame, arms crossed. "When's the last time you went to something that wasn't work-related?"

"Last week I had dinner with Lily."

"Lily doesn't count. She's your daughter. I mean something for you. Something where you wear a dress that costs more than her school supplies and remember that you have a body that exists for reasons other than carrying things and looking professional."

I glare at her, but she's right. She's always right, which is deeply inconvenient.

"It's a networking opportunity," she continues, and I can hear the careful neutrality in her voice. "The Ashford Foundation. Every major player in sustainable fashion will be there. Every. Single. One. Your brand could use that kind of exposure."

"My brand is doing fine."

"Your brand is doing great. Your soul is doing terrible, and Sebastian Ashford is—"

"Don't." I hold up a hand. "Don't do that thing where you pretend this is about business networking."

She smiles, and it's almost pitying. "Okay. It's about Sebastian Ashford, who looks at you like you're the only interesting thing in any room you occupy together, and who is apparently rich enough and obsessive enough to send hand-written invitations to charity galas. It's about the fact that you've been radiating tension for three weeks like a human Tesla coil, and the only thing that's going to fix that is—"

"Mira."

"—is either professional therapy or a very good kiss."

I pick up my latte to avoid responding, which is basically admitting she's right. The coffee is perfectly temperature—hot enough to taste like something, cool enough not to burn. Of course she got it right. She always does.

"I'll think about it," I lie.

I go. Obviously, I go.

The dress is something I designed last year and never wore—midnight blue silk that moves like water, cut so precisely it feels like a second skin. It's dangerous. It's the kind of dress that says look at me while simultaneously saying I don't need you to. The neckline dips low enough to be interesting, high enough to maintain plausible deniability. The back is open. My mother would have called it wicked.

I call it armor.

I'm standing in the entrance hall of the Ashford Foundation's event space—all soaring ceilings and crystal chandeliers and the particular smell of money that's old enough to be confident—when Sebastian finds me.

He doesn't approach. He appears.

One moment I'm surveying the room with the detached observation of someone mentally cataloging which attendees are wearing fast fashion and silently judging them, and the next there's a presence behind me that makes my skin prickle with awareness. Bergamot and leather and something darker—that cedar smoke scent that lives in my hindbrain and makes thinking difficult.

"You came." His voice is low, meant only for me, and it carries the satisfaction of a man who knew I would.

I turn slowly, giving myself time to arrange my face into something appropriately neutral. It doesn't work. It never works with him.

Sebastian is wearing a bespoke suit that probably has its own security detail—charcoal gray with a white shirt that's somehow both pristine and deliberately undone at the collar. His dark blonde hair is slightly longer than the last time I saw him, and he looks tired in that way that suggests he's been thinking too hard about something.

Preferably me.

"It's a networking opportunity," I say, and my voice comes out steadier than my pulse. "I'm networking."

"You're standing alone in the corner looking like you'd rather be literally anywhere else." He steps closer, and I have to fight the urge to step back, which would be admitting that his proximity affects me. "That's not networking. That's hiding."

"I'm observing. It's a professional skill."

"It's a defense mechanism." He smiles, and it's the kind of smile that suggests he knows exactly what he's doing. "You look beautiful, by the way. Did you make that?"

The question is casual, but we both know it's not. He's asking if I made it. He's asking if every stitch, every seam, every deliberate choice in the cut and drape is mine. He's asking if I put this much care into what touches my skin.

"Yes," I say, because there's no point in lying.

"I thought so." His eyes trace the line of the neckline, and I feel it like a touch. "No one else would understand how to make something look both like armor and like an invitation."

My throat is suddenly dry.

"You're very smooth," I tell him, turning back to the crowd. "I bet that works on most people."

"I'm not trying to work on you." He shifts beside me, and now he's close enough that I can feel the warmth of him. "I gave up on working on you. I'm just stating facts. You're beautiful. You look like you're about to murder someone with your eyes. It's compelling."

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. "That's the worst compliment I've ever received."

"It's not a compliment. It's an observation." He's quiet for a moment. "Dance with me."

"No."

"We're not even at the dancing part of the evening yet, and you've already said no. That's impressive commitment to a defense mechanism."

I glance at him, and he's watching me with those slate-gray eyes that seem to catalog everything—every breath, every micro-expression, every way my body betrays my mind's careful indifference.

"If I dance with you," I say slowly, "people will talk."

"People are already talking." He offers his hand. "Might as well give them something worth discussing."

The thing about Sebastian is that he makes it look so easy—this confidence, this certainty that he belongs in any space he occupies. That he belongs next to me. I take his hand because refusing would require more strength than I currently possess, and also because I've been lying to myself for weeks about how much I want this.

The dance floor is already crowded with the city's most important people, and I'm acutely aware of being watched as Sebastian pulls me into the space between bodies. His hand settles on the small of my back—on bare skin, because the dress is open there—and the contact is so immediate and electric that I have to fight not to gasp.

"Breathe," he murmurs. "It's just dancing."

"It's not just dancing." I place my hand on his shoulder, maintaining the careful distance that the music and propriety suggest, but he's already pulling me closer. Not scandalously so—we're still respectable, still appropriate—but close enough that I can feel the rise and fall of his chest, close enough that my pulse is doing things that seem medically inadvisable.

"No," he agrees. "It's not."

We move together in a way that feels practiced, even though we've never danced before. His hand on my back is steady, and I can feel the strength in his shoulders beneath the expensive fabric of his suit. He smells like bergamot and leather and expensive cologne, and underneath it all, something that's just him—something that makes my body want to do things my mind is desperately trying to prevent.

"You're tense," he observes, and his voice has that quality that suggests he's enjoying this observation immensely.

"You're close," I counter.

"Not close enough." But he doesn't move. He just holds me there, in this space between proximity and peril, and lets me feel the weight of what's happening between us. "The gala has a terrace. Overlooking the city. Very romantic. Very dangerous for someone trying to maintain professional distance."

"I'm not trying to maintain professional distance." The words escape before I can stop them. "I'm trying to maintain any distance."

He goes still for just a moment, and then he's guiding me off the dance floor with a hand on my back that feels both proprietary and protective. We move through the crowd with the ease of people who've learned to navigate spaces without drawing attention, though I'm fairly certain everyone is watching. Everyone is always watching Sebastian.

The terrace is exactly as he described—all city lights and night air and the particular silence that comes with being removed from a crowd. There's no one else out here, which probably means he arranged that too. Sebastian doesn't leave things to chance.

"This is a bad idea," I say, but I'm not moving away from him.

"Probably." He turns to face me fully, and the light from inside catches the sharp angles of his jaw. "I stopped caring about good ideas approximately three weeks ago."

"When?"

"When you had dinner with me and looked at me like you wanted to both kiss me and murder me, and I realized I didn't care which one happened as long as you kept looking at me like that."

The night air is cool against my skin, but I'm burning. His hand is still on my back, and he's close enough that I can see the darker ring around his iris, close enough that I can feel the heat of him.

"We can't do this," I say, and it's the weakest protest I've ever made.

"Why not?"

Because my life is complicated. Because I have a daughter who has his eyes and I haven't told him. Because I'm terrified of what happens when he finds out. Because I'm even more terrified of what happens if he doesn't care.

"Because," I say instead, "you're a distraction I don't need."

"I'm not a distraction." He steps closer, and now there's barely any space between us. "I'm something you've been running from for seven years, and you're finally tired of running."

The accuracy of that lands like a punch. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know you design clothes like you're trying to build walls out of fabric. I know you work seventy-hour weeks and still worry you're not doing enough. I know you take up space without demanding it, which is somehow more powerful than if you demanded it constantly." He reaches up, and his thumb traces my cheekbone. "I know you're terrified of needing anyone, and I know you're standing on this terrace with me instead of running, which means you're tired of being alone."

"Don't," I whisper, but I don't move away.

"Don't what? Tell you the truth?" He's so close now that I can feel his breath. "You're allowed to want things, Evelyn. You're allowed to want me."

I am. I do. And that's the problem.

"This is a mistake," I say, but my hand is already curling into his suit jacket, already anchoring myself to him.

"Probably." He cups my face in his hands, and his palms are warm against my skin. "But I've made a lot of business decisions I regretted, and I've never regretted a single one that involved you."

Then he's kissing me, and it's not gentle. It's not tentative. It's a kiss that feels like a claim and a question and a demand all at once. It's a kiss that tastes like bergamot and whiskey and the particular flavor of a man who doesn't do anything halfway.

I kiss him back because I have no other choice, because my body has apparently staged a coup against my mind, because I've been dreaming about this for seven years and my subconscious is finally getting its due.

His hands move to my bare back, and the contact is so intense that I have to break the kiss to breathe. He doesn't let me go far—just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and serious.

"Tell me who you are," he says, and his voice is rough. "Tell me the truth about where you went. Tell me why you ran."

And there it is. The moment where everything could change. The moment where I could tell him about Lily, about the pregnancy I didn't know about until after I'd disappeared, about the daughter who has his sharp gray eyes and his impossible confidence. The moment where I could stop lying.

But I can't. Not here. Not like this. Not when the truth could destroy everything.

I pull away from him, and the loss of his warmth is almost painful.

"I can't," I say, and I hate how small my voice sounds.

"Evelyn—"

"No." I'm already moving toward the door, already putting distance between us. "You don't get to kiss me like that and demand answers. You don't get to make me feel like this and expect me to just fall apart."

"I'm not asking you to fall apart." He reaches for me, but I step back. "I'm asking you to trust me."

"Trust is a luxury I can't afford."

I leave him there on the terrace, surrounded by city lights and the wreckage of whatever was about to happen. My dress feels too thin, too exposed. The air feels too cold. And my heart is racing so fast I'm genuinely concerned about the medical implications.

I make it to the coat check without falling apart, which feels like a minor miracle. I'm in a car heading home when my phone buzzes.

It's a text from an unknown number: We need to talk. About the girl.

My stomach drops.

Then another message, this one with an attachment. A photo. Me and Lily, leaving her school last week. Lily's hand in mine. Lily's auburn hair catching the afternoon light. Lily's gray eyes—his gray eyes—looking up at me with complete trust.

And underneath the photo, one line:

She's mine. And so are you.

Not from Sebastian.

The number is blocked, but the message is unmistakable. Someone knows. Someone is watching. Someone has decided that my daughter is a prize worth taking.

I pull over to the side of the road and try very hard not to hyperventilate.