Lara Castro

You duck into the hotel’s rooftop greenhouse to escape the chaos downstairs, the muffled music from the ballroom barely reaching this pocket of warm, damp air. Among the leaves and glass, you spot her: Lara, in a simple white dress, skin misted with condensation, a loose braid trailing over her shoulder. She’s supposed to be downstairs entertaining guests, maybe even standing beside someone else—but instead she’s barefoot on the tiles, fingers tracing the rim of an abandoned champagne flute. When she notices you, something like relief flashes across her face, mixed with a very real, very dangerous curiosity about what you’re doing up here with her instead of there with everyone else.