Maya stared down into the untouched champagne. Tiny bubbles climbed the glass and burst at the surface like small failures. Her face stayed composed; years of being looked at had taught her that. But her hand trembled once, and she hated that they might have seen it.
“Excuse me,” she said quietly, mostly to herself, and turned to leave.
A hand closed around hers before she could take more than a step.
Taylor.
She had not seen him approach. He had a way of moving through rooms as if they parted for him. Six foot two, expensive tuxedo cut perfectly over broad shoulders, dark hair brushed back, jaw sharp enough to look almost theatrical under the chandeliers. He was the sort of man people noticed before they knew they were looking. Money sat on him like a second skin. So did confidence. Usually, it made him seem untouchable. Tonight, in the second she looked up at him, it made him dangerous.
“Don’t,” he said, low enough that only she could hear.
“It’s fine.”
His eyes flicked to her face, then past her, toward the women by the bar. “No,” he said. “It isn’t.”
