Amelia felt so stifled.
The laughter around her felt too loud, the music too sharp, the air too thick with perfume and champagne. Every word, every glance, pressed against her ribs like invisible hands squeezing tighter and tighter. If she stayed one second longer, she was certain she would shatter right there in front of everyone.
"I… need to go to the restroom," she muttered.
She didn't wait for Liam—or anyone—to answer.
She didn't walk away.
She fled.
Her heels struck the grass in quick, uneven beats as if something monstrous were chasing her. Past the lantern-lit tables, past the drifting clusters of guests, straight toward the mansion. Anyone watching would think she was escaping a battlefield.
Summer watched her retreating figure and curled her lips into a small, satisfied smirk.
Amelia's long strides were almost desperate.
"Hmph. Pathetic. I didn't even do anything," Summer muttered under her breath. "And she's already running. What easy prey."
