He did not answer right away.
That made Kayla smile wider.
Because in rooms like that—rooms rented for thirty thousand dollars a night, rooms full of chandeliers heavy enough to make the ceiling seem nervous, rooms where wealth didn’t whisper but stood in the middle of the floor with a champagne flute in its hand—silence from someone dressed like him looked like confusion.
Or guilt.
Or embarrassment.
He wore plain dark jeans. Beat-up black Nikes with a crease across the toe. A white T-shirt that fit well enough but had no logo, no designer cut, no careful distressing that cost more because it looked poor on purpose. Over one shoulder hung a black drawstring bag like he had come from a gym or a bus station, not a Bellamy family wedding at the Grand Aurelia Ballroom.
He had no watch.
No chain.
