A flaw. A reminder. Her chest burned with embarrassment and confusion. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered to Vincent, voice tight. “I don’t know why he—” “It’s fine,” Vincent cut in quickly. Too quickly. He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “It’s just a dress. No one cares. We’re here now.”
Then, softer—but pointed: “I did warn you, though. This was always a risk.” The smile he gave her was practiced. Polite. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. Emma nodded, swallowing the response rising in her throat, forcing herself to breathe.