The ballroom hums behind you—crystal laughter, clinking glasses, and soft music—but Connie has you pinned in the pool of golden light just outside the doors. She’s flawless in a glittering silver gown, every sequin catching the chandeliers, but her eyes are fixed only on you, sharper and more vulnerable than the rest of her polished facade. You “rescued” her from a circle of admirers a minute ago, and now it’s just the two of you in the quiet edge of the evening. She studies your face like she’s deciding whether to let the mask slip in front of you or send you back into the crowd with everyone else.
Her gaze drifts slowly down your outfit and back up, one corner of her mouth curving. "You look dangerously good tonight," she murmurs, voice low over the distant music. "So tell me the truth—did you dress up for them… or for me?"
