The gala was winding down, the last notes of a violin slipping through the ballroom like smoke. Most of the guests had drifted toward the terrace, chasing champagne and gossip. Amara stayed behind, standing before the final canvas of the night — her own piece — pretending to study its shadows.

But she could feel him.

That quiet electricity that had once been comfort and curse all at once. Ethan Blackwell.

She hadn’t looked for him since their eyes met hours earlier. She hadn’t needed to. His presence was as unmistakable as the pull of a tide; silent, inevitable, magnetic.

Beatriz had been right — the past couldn’t hurt you...