Mark didn't speak as we walked deeper into the ballroom, the noise and light around us building to a dull, constant hum. He played the part perfectly—smiled when people greeted him, nodded along to every comment about the future of Rowley Enterprises, and even lifted his glass when someone proposed a toast in his honor.
But he wasn't really here.
Not with me.
I could feel it in the way his hand stayed on my lower back, firm but disconnected. Like muscle memory. Like an obligation. Not like it had felt earlier, when his fingers had traced my skin as if he couldn't bear to stop.
Now, he moved on autopilot. His smile didn't quite reach his eyes. His posture was too rigid, his eyes scanning the room with a precision that wasn't casual—it was guarded.
Something had shifted.
And I didn't know what, but I had my suspicions.
