The hallway was wide and gold and silent.
Diana saw Arianne first. The dress caught the chandelier light as she walked, her hand resting on Noah Hart's arm. She moved the way she had always moved—calm, unhurried, as if the world would rearrange itself to accommodate her. Beside her, Noah Hart was saying something low, his head inclined toward hers, and Arianne's expression was relaxed in a way Diana had never seen before. Not the cold composure from the society pages. Not the controlled reserve from the press conference. Something private. Something real.
Then Dominic froze.
His arm went rigid under her hand. Diana felt it before she understood it—the sudden tension, the way his whole body locked as if he'd been struck. She looked up at his face and saw the expression she had come to dread. Blank. Utterly blank. The mask he wore whenever Arianne Summers was mentioned, whenever her name appeared in the news, whenever someone asked if he'd heard she was back in Montclair.
