Arik leaned one shoulder against the carved stone rail, champagne in one hand, the other still holding the remaining small plate. "Escaped onto balconies? Constantly."
"No," she said. "Found one visible enough that people will romanticize us and invisible enough that they won't dare interrupt."
He looked at her over the rim of his glass. "That too."
She took a sip of champagne and had to concede the logic was excellent.
From inside, through the tall warded glass, the ballroom remained bright and alive. Guests moved in elegant currents, jewels flashing, military uniforms catching chandelier light, old money, and newer power arranged in polished clusters. And here, just beyond immediate reach, she and Arik stood under winter light with food and champagne, her diamonds bright at her throat, his black formalwear cut like a promise of trouble, both of them close enough to suggest intimacy and composed enough to make interruption feel almost vulgar.
