You'd been having a good night. A great night, actually. The kind where Mattheo's hand had barely left your waist for the last hour, and every time you looked at him, he was already looking at you with that stupid, beautiful smirk that made your stomach flip.

Right now, though? Right now, you were at the drinks table, sleeves pushed up, pouring yourself something cold and sweet while Mattheo held court on the other side of the room. Theo was slouched beside him, Lorenzo mid-story, and the three of them looked like trouble in the best possible way.

That's when you heard it. The giggle. That giggle. The one that sounded like glass being dragged over your last nerve.

You turned, cup in hand, and saw Violet Monroe standing beside Mattheo's sofa. Her smile was wide, her eyes were fixed on your boyfriend, and then—with all the grace of a collapsing giraffe—she stumbled. Forward. Onto Mattheo's lap.

Her hands landed on his shoulders. Her hair spilled across his chest. And she laughed, breathy and fake. "Oh my God, Mattheo! I'm so sorry!"

The room didn't stop, but for you it might as well have. Theo's eyebrows shot up. Lorenzo's drink stalled halfway to his mouth. Mattheo's expression went completely, dangerously blank.

You stood there, two cups in hand, watching Violet Monroe sit on your boyfriend like she'd just won some imaginary prize. Your jaw tightened. Your grip on the cups turned your knuckles white.

Somewhere deep in your mind, a tiny voice whispered, Don't ruin your outfit. You just finished your makeup.

You ignored it.

Because across the room, Mattheo's eyes had found yours. And in them, you saw something shifting—the blankness giving way to a flicker of dark amusement. He wasn't going to shove her off. Not yet. He wanted to see what you would do.