The night was supposed to be over. Amelia had done everything expected of her—performed beautifully, smiled graciously, accepted the praise lavished upon her.

She had played the part of the perfect guest, the accomplished musician, the woman who had returned from the shadows.

But we both knew what would happen next. Michael would come for her. And she wasn't ready for that. Neither was I.

So we left first.

I saw him move the moment Amelia finished speaking, the second that small, knowing smile curved her lips as she looked at me. Michael was across the ballroom, watching her like a man seeing something he had long forgotten. He started forward, his gaze locked onto her, determination flashing across his face. He wasn't going to let her walk away this time. But before he could take another step—

"Michael!" Saddie's voice. Sharp. Frantic. Cutting through the hum of conversation.

I turned just in time to see her stumble slightly, pressing a hand to her temple as if she were dizzy, as if she might collapse at any moment.

And it worked.

Michael hesitated.

Saddie reached for him, her breathing uneven, her expression one of perfect vulnerability.

"I—I don't feel well," she murmured, swaying as though the ground beneath her had suddenly become unsteady.

Michael cursed under his breath, his instinct kicking in as he caught her arm, steadying her before she could fall. It was a performance. A well-timed performance. One that did exactly what she wanted. Michael turned his attention away from Amelia. And that was all the time we needed.

I didn't have to say anything. Amelia moved before I could, stepping back from the crowd, slipping through the guests as if she had never been there in the first place.

I followed immediately, keeping close behind her as we maneuvered toward the exit, weaving through the clusters of elegantly dressed figures still lost in conversation.

But just as she reached the door— She glanced back. And that was when she saw it.

Saddie.

Her delicate, intentional touch. Her fingers ghosted toward Michael's arm, a subtle yet deliberate motion—one meant to look innocent. Not dramatic. Not enough to draw suspicion. Just enough for Amelia to see.

Michael didn't let her touch him. The moment her fingers brushed the fabric of his sleeve, he shifted back—small, but definite. A refusal. A boundary set in silence. But it didn't matter. Because Amelia had already seen everything she needed to.

The moment we stepped outside, the cool night air rushed over us. I turned to her. "Car's already waiting."

She nodded once, not looking back. Not at the grand hall behind us. Not at the man who was supposed to be her husband. She walked toward the waiting taxi with purpose, her gown billowing slightly in the breeze, her heels clicking against the pavement.

I opened the car door for her, slipping in after she did. The moment the doors shut, the driver pulled away. Only then did Amelia exhale.