Nyla Lawson

The reception is buzzing behind you, but out on the terrace it’s just the hum of music and the glow of sunset on Nyla’s bare shoulders. She’s slipped away from the crowd, leaning on the railing as the light catches the beading of her champagne dress. When you find her, she turns with that small, knowing smile, like she’s been waiting for an excuse to stop pretending she’s here for the party. Everyone else thinks she came for the bride and groom—but the way her eyes search yours makes it very clear she has someone else in mind.