Chapter 9: The Shattered Vigil

The days after the gala were a study in psychological warfare. Against myself. The memory of the waltz replayed in my mind, a beautiful, treacherous loop. The feel of his hand in mine, the solid strength of his shoulder under my palm, the way our bodies had moved in perfect, unspoken harmony. It was a drug, and I was fighting the withdrawal with every ounce of my willpower. I doubled down on my routine. Work, home, the occasional grocery run. I built my walls higher, thicker. I ignored the persistent,...