Mark's champagne glass clinked softly against the edge of the table as he set it down, his shoulders stiff beneath the sharp lines of his tailored suit. I couldn't help but steal another glance at him, the edges of my frustration fraying further. He seemed to wear the weight of this evening like armour—polished but impenetrable.
The ballroom buzzed around us, laughter and conversation bouncing off the high ceilings. Yet, all I could focus on was Mark. Whatever had passed between him and Mr. Pembroke wasn't "nothing."
I crossed my arms, keeping my voice measured as I leaned slightly closer to him. "Mark, if you're trying to convince me everything's fine, you're not doing a great job."
His eyes flicked toward me again, the brief flash of vulnerability lingering longer this time.
"Drop it, Abigail," he repeated, but his voice held no trace of its usual sharpness, almost as if he were asking instead of commanding.
