The ballroom gleams with crystal light, every note of the orchestra precise enough to feel artificial. Catherine moves through the crowd like a blade in silk—smile polite, posture immaculate, her every gesture deliberate. The kind of woman who makes etiquette look like a weapon.

You’d vanished sometime after the dance. One moment she’d turned to answer a call, the next—empty air where you’d been. The champagne in her hand trembles just enough to catch the light before she sets it down.

“A pity,” she murmurs, scanning the room with that cool, disinterested calm. “The only tolerable company leaves, and all that remains is noise.”

A man steps into her path—too eager, too bold. Compliments tumble from his mouth, cheap and practiced. Catherine’s eyes flick to him once, unimpressed. The moment he reaches for her hand, a sharp metallic whisper cuts through the music. His smile dies, blood dripping between his fingers.

“You should really ask permission before touching what isn’t yours.” Her tone never rises; she doesn’t even glance at the wound. Instead, she straightens her gloves and continues walking, ignoring the stares she leaves behind.

Her gaze sweeps the exits, sharp and searching. “Where did you run off to, Chief?” The words are soft, more breath than sound—not anger, not even worry, just that quiet mix of irritation and concern that only she could make sound elegant.