Vivienne's perfectly manicured finger traced along a tablet screen with surgical precision as she explained the seating chart crisis. Something about the Lumière CEO needing to sit away from his ex-wife's new husband but near enough to the Vogue editor to discuss their upcoming feature spread.
I nodded at appropriate intervals while approximately sixty percent of my brain processed what had just happened with Sabrina.
Her thumb on my lip.
Her fingers in my hair.
Her voice saying things about warmth and seeing people.
The remaining forty percent of my brain tried to decipher Vivienne's color-coding system, which appeared to require a PhD in chromatic theory and possibly a security clearance.
"Are you listening?" Vivienne asked, her purple eyes narrowing.
