The grand hall was in full motion now. Guests drifted between tables in tailored suits and flowing gowns, voices rising and falling like waves against the waterfall outside. The quartet played on, strings weaving through conversation. Champagne trays floated past every few minutes. Everything continued exactly as it should. And Iphe moved through it all on autopilot.
She confirmed a serving sequence with the kitchen. Answered a question about parking arrangements. Noted a crooked fork on table twelve and signaled a server to fix it. Her clipboard stayed steady, her posture stayed controlled, her voice stayed even. Professional, competent and present.
But her body wouldn't forget.
The place where his palm had pressed against the small of her back still burned. Not painfully, but with a strange, lingering heat, as though he had left an imprint beneath the fabric. Every shift of her dress reminded her exactly where his fingers had been. Firm, careful, and gone too soon. She'd been jostled before, steadied by guests or staff. None of it had stayed with her past the moment, but this wouldn't leave.
She straightened a guest's water glass and kept moving.
Her eyes drifted toward the arched window. Again. For the sixth time in ten minutes.
Moonlight spilled across the stone floor in long silver ribbons. Shadows were deep there now. Nothing. No sign of him. Yet the pull toward that space wouldn't fade. It sat in her chest like a fishhook, tugging gently and constantly.
She looked away. Focused on her clipboard. Made herself read the same line for the umpteenth time.
"You're doing it again."
Iphe's head snapped up. Mira appeared before her, with her ever sweet-silly smile.
"Doing what?" she blinked, the world around her sharpening back into focus.
"That thing where you pretend you're working but you're actually somewhere else entirely." Mira's grin widened. "And you keep looking at that window like you're waiting for a secret ghost-lover to appear."
"What?"
"A secret, hot, sexy ghost-lover, with sculpted body, powerful shoulders, and deliciously ripped shape—"
"Mira, stop."
Mira laughed, bright and unapologetic. "Alright. I'll stop, but how about you tell me why your cheeks are so rosy?"
Iphe tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I don't know what you're talking about, Mira. I'm working."
"Uh-huh." Mira's teasing softened, concern flickering beneath the humor. "You sure you're okay? Because you've got that look—like the ground just shifted under you and you're still trying to find your balance."
She opened her mouth, closed it again. Mira had always looked out for her since her first day, and in two months they'd gone from colleagues to best friends. But how could she explain the way the air had shifted when their eyes met across the hall? How a stranger's touch had felt both grounding and terrifying? How her pulse still hadn't settled? She couldn't, so she tucked the truth away and deflected
"I don't think Jax pays you to watch me all evening."
Mira's grin returned, warmer this time. "Well, someone has to make sure our expert workaholic coordinator actually eats something before midnight, before she goes ahead to organize the entire world into submission and forget she's got a body that needs food."
Iphe smiled despite herself, her chest tightening with gratitude. "Nothing's wrong," she said quietly. "I'm just—"
"Ms. Castellanos?"
Both of them turned. A guest in a sharp navy suit stood a few feet away, one hand raised politely. "I'm so sorry to interrupt, but I was told you have something for me from Mr. Jax."
Mira straightened immediately, professional warmth replacing humor in half a second. "Absolutely, sir. Right this way."
She shot Iphe one last look—half smirk, half concern—then guided the guest toward the inner hall, her laughter trailing behind her.
Iphe stood alone.
The noise of the event hummed around her, but it felt distant now. Muted. Like someone had turned the volume down on everything except the pulse in her own ears.
Mira's interrogation had cracked something open in her.
The careful composure she'd been holding together since his hand left her waist was slipping. Her breath came too fast, her hands wouldn't stay still, and the ache behind her eyes kept worsening.
She needed a minute. Somewhere without an audience. Where she could breathe it all out and get herself together.
The powder room —tucked off the main corridor, small and private— was exactly what she needed. She could slip in, reset, and be back before anyone needed her.
She turned toward the hallway and slipped out of the hall into the quieter passage beyond it. The noise of the event dropped behind her. The service corridor branched left toward the powder room, narrow and dim after the brightness of the grand hall.
She turned the corner—
—and nearly walked straight into him.