Langston rose.
Every eye in the room followed him as he walked around the table. He moved slowly, without wasted motion, and that made it worse. If he had rushed, it might have looked like anger. This was something colder. Deliberate. Controlled. Final.
He stopped in front of Amelia.
She could smell sandalwood and smoke and the winter air still clinging faintly to his coat from when he’d entered. She lifted her chin, though her legs felt hollow. If this was the end, she would not cry in front of Camila Vanderhoven.
“Open your eyes,” he said.
Only then did Amelia realize she had closed them.
She forced them open and looked up at him.
For one long beat, Langston Scott studied her face as if he were reading a language no one else in the room understood. Then, to the horror of everyone watching, he reached into his breast pocket and drew out a white silk handkerchief.
Camila inhaled sharply, already stepping toward him as though claiming her reward.
But Langston ignored her completely.
Leave a Comment