The tension in the air was palpable the moment Ava stepped into the convention hall the next morning. The usual lively chatter among competitors felt different—less friendly, more whispered, more guarded. It was the kind of shift that set off immediate alarm bells in her mind.
Ryan noticed it too. His casual stance became more alert as he scanned the room, his fingers lightly tapping against his coffee cup. "Something's off," he muttered, leaning in so only she could hear.
Ava frowned. "You feel it too?"
Ryan nodded, his sharp gaze flickering toward a group of competitors huddled near the espresso bar, whispering behind their hands. When one of them—Camille, a French matchmaker Ava had actually liked—caught sight of her, she quickly looked away, her lips pressing into a tight line.
Ava's stomach sank. Oh, great.
Before she could ask what was going on, a familiar smug voice cut through the crowd.
