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ISABELLA

The dress hugs every curve instead of disguising them.

I've decided not to hide tonight.

Apparently, the Sovereign's rooftop takes that personally.

I'm so busy scanning the crowd for Mark that I don't see the puddle.

My heel hits the wet tile, and the whole world tilts.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

There's one terrible, weightless second where I know exactly how this ends. Face-first, in front of everyone.

Dignity somewhere in the planter boxes.

At least the dress will make the photos.

I slam into something solid.

Not the floor.

No. The floor doesn't have a heartbeat.

An arm locks around my waist. A hand catches my elbow.

The world stops tilting.

My cheek is pressed against a crisp white shirt that smells like cedar and smoke and something expensive I can't name.

"I've got you," a low voice says above my head.

He does.

He really, really does.

I look up.

And up.

Even in four-inch heels, I have to tip my head back to see his face.

When I do, I forget the puddle.

I briefly forget my own name.

He's beautiful in a way that feels unfair.

Silver touches both temples.

It doesn't make him look older.

It makes him look dangerously competent, like he knows exactly what he wants and how long it will take to get it.

Dark eyes, so deep they read nearly black beneath thick lashes.