Christy waited until the engagement party had ended. She did not slam doors or pace the room in agitation. She did not cry into a pillow or collapse into some dramatic display of wounded pride. Instead she sat on the velvet chaise in Miles's living room with her back perfectly straight and her hands folded neatly on her lap. The long champagne colored gown she had worn to the party flowed around her like liquid metal, catching the low lamplight in quiet reflections. She looked composed in a way that felt almost sculptural, as if elegance itself had been carved into human form. It was the kind of beauty that made lesser men hesitate before speaking.
The front door opened.
