The morning light was too bright, too clinical, like it was already interrogating us. I stood in the center of our dressing room, the air thick with the scent of Mateo's cologne and the lingering, humid warmth of the shower.

My fingers felt like lead as I reached up to straighten his silk tie. I've done this a dozen times, but today, my hands wouldn't stop that tiny, traitorous tremble. I focused on the knot, my knuckles brushing the crisp white of his collar.

"Stop," Mateo murmured.

I didn't. I smoothed the lapel of his charcoal suit jacket instead. "It's crooked."

"Isabella." He caught my wrists.

His palms were hot,...