Marcus stepped back to the microphone like a man reclaiming stolen territory.
The crackle of the mic was the only sound for a heartbeat—then the auditorium exhaled as one, sinking back into that Pavlovian hush reserved for royalty. Two thousand spoiled princelings and princesses straightened spines, pocketed phones, and remembered who they were supposed to adore.
Phei had already retreated to the cheap seats, upper balcony, back row. Far from the Legacy clusterfuck down front. Far from the stage lights that loved to kiss Marcus's cheekbones.
Close to—
Sniff.
He tilted his head half an inch.
The girl beside him—petite, brown hair tucked behind one ear, face vaguely familiar in that subtle way—was conducting the most discreet olfactoryinvestigation of her life. Not the full-on desperate huff some girls pulled when his scent hit like a chemical weapon.
