KENJI
Thirty minutes.
It's been thirty minutes. A pit is forming in my stomach, cold and hard. She wouldn't just wander off. Not here. Not for this long.
I force a tight smile, excusing myself from a conversation with some investor whose name I've already forgotten. "Please, excuse me for a moment."
My stride is measured, controlled, as I walk toward the restrooms. I can't look frantic. I can't cause a scene. But every instinct is screaming.
I pull out my phone and call her. It goes straight to voicemail. The pleasant, automated greeting feels like a slap.
Fuck.
Where is she?
I check the screen again. Nothing. No text. No missed call.
Maybe she's just lost. Maybe her phone died. She'll call back.
I stand near the entrance to the main hall, my eyes scanning the crowd of glittering gowns and tuxedos. There's no flash of emerald green. No sight of her wild hair.
The cold pit in my stomach turns to ice.
