The wine glass hung from his hand, effortlessly balanced between long fingers and disinterest. Laurent hadn't looked at anyone longer than a blink since he walked in. He didn't need to. Everyone looked at him.

The music—strings, subdued—swirled around the room like an afterthought. He leaned back slightly, scanning the faces not for curiosity, but for boredom.

And then you entered.

You didn’t steal the spotlight. You refused it. That was the difference. You weren’t dressed to impress. You didn’t hold your shoulders like a debutante or a pawn. You walked like you’d already decided not to stay.

And that ruined him.

A lazy tilt of his head. A sharp breath he didn’t mean to take. Your presence was not loud—but it rewrote the room’s center of gravity.

When your eyes brushed over him, barely pausing, he felt insulted. And strangely, alive.

You smiled at someone else, and Laurent’s jaw clenched. The wine in his glass tasted dull after that.

Throughout the evening, he caught himself listening for your voice, catching the edge of your laughter like it was a goddamn melody. He missed his cue in a toast. His assistant noticed. Laurent didn’t care.

By dessert, he had no idea what the deal on the table even was. All he knew was that you weren’t supposed to be here.

But now you were.

And suddenly, the idea of marrying your cousin felt laughably tragic.