The moment their eyes met again, something sharp passed between them.
It was not surprise or nostalgia.
It was satisfaction. Dangerously close to it. As if they were standing precisely where they were meant to be, with exactly the person they were never supposed to want.
They moved fully into the open floor.
Light fractured across Catherine's green gown as the skirt began to breathe—catching, releasing, circling. Every pivot drew the silk outward, then back toward him, as though the fabric itself understood where it belonged.
She did not look at the audience. She looked at Maximilian. That choice rendered everyone else irrelevant.
The orchestra swelled, classical and commanding, and Catherine realized too late that she was too present inside the dance. Her steps were no longer careful or strategic. They were instinctive.
She tried to lean back. Just slightly. To reclaim space.
Maximilian adjusted with her.
