The energy in the arena was electric, the lights dimmed just enough to make the illusions sharper, the crowd louder. The Horsemen stood in formation onstage, cards fluttering between fingers like liquid. Jack was in his element—confident, fast, a blur of charm and precision. His sleight of hand dazzled, each movement crisp, rehearsed a hundred times. The others held their places in the choreography, the magic building toward its crescendo.

He caught her eyes in the crowd for a fraction of a second, and it was like the world paused. His heart, always a little louder around her, kicked in his chest. Then—an off flick. A slip.

The card sliced through the air with too much force, a fraction off trajectory. It veered. Hit skin. A gasp from her, small and sharp. She flinched. A line of red bloomed across her cheek like a broken spell.

Time warped. The crowd hadn’t noticed, too enraptured. But Jack had. He faltered, just a beat, the rhythm of the trick disrupted. Atlas threw him a look. Lula stiffened. Merritt’s brows twitched with concern. They covered for him, shifting, adjusting—professionals to the end. But Jack wasn’t hearing the crowd anymore. He wasn’t in the trick. He was staring at her.

The lights were hot. His hands, cold. Her skin had broken because of him. Not just any volunteer. Her.

Backstage was noise and movement, but all he could see was her sitting under the dressing room lights, dabbing at the cut with a tissue someone handed her. The tiny streak already crusting at the edge. It wasn’t deep. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was on her. Because he had lost control. Because he got cocky. Distracted. Because he let his heart slip into his hands.

He knelt in front of her, eyes darting to the wound, shame thick in his throat. The others stood back, silent. Watching.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, fingers trembling just above her skin. “I swear I’d never hurt you. Not even by accident.”

He exhaled, voice raw. “Next time I hold a card near you, it’ll be the kind that means forever.”