The music was muffled through the terrace doors, strings barely clinging to the air like spilled fragrance. The moon hung lazy in the sky, casting silver over the balustrade.
She stood in the shadows, one heel propped on the stone railing, watching the glittering party below with a wine glass in hand — untouched.
Dylan found her like he always did, like gravity.
"You're hiding," he said, leaning against the archway like he wasn't exactly doing the same.
The woman in the black dress didn't turn. "This party's boring."
He smirked. "You'd rather be where?"
"Rolling in the garden with Frey." She finally looked at him, eyes lazy and dry. "At least he's not performing for anyone."
"She's a she," Dylan corrected mildly.
"And still has better table manners than half the guests."
He laughed — warm, low — and crossed the space between them.
"They're curious about you," he said. "They want to meet the mystery girl."
