Lucian would not let go.
His hand was iron around my wrist, pulling me down the stairs, away from the corridor, away from James, away from the choice I had just made. His grip was not gentle. It was not careful. It was the grip of a man who had lost control and did not care who saw.
"Lucian. Please. Slow down."
He did not slow. His hand tightened. His jaw was set. His eyes were fixed ahead, on the lights, on the crowd, on the gala that was waiting to swallow us whole.
We hit the main floor. The lights were blinding. Cameras flashed. The noise was a wall of sound—questions, shouts, the chaos of a hundred people trying to see, to capture, to consume.
He kept dragging.
"Lucian—"
"Dragging her like livestock!"
The voice cut through the crowd. I turned. A woman in silver was pointing, her phone raised, her face twisted with righteous fury. Others were joining. Phones were everywhere. Flashes. Eyes. Mouths moving, shaping words I could not hear over the roar of my own blood.
