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“Is it because of him?” she asks.

I shrug. “I don’t know who you mean.”

She peers over my shoulder. “Please, how naive do you think I am? You’re obviously standing here so he can stare at your ass in that dress—it’s working, by the way.”

“I’m sorry,” I intone in my frostiest lawyer voice. “I’m not sure who you’re talking about.”

Elle reaches out to grab my cheeks, squishing my face as she turns it firmly to the side, forcing me to face a certain golden-haired idiot standing with his hands in his pockets, laughing at something the woman next to him is saying.

Since I refuse to look at him, my eyes fall on the woman—the one who pulled him away earlier.

She’s beautiful in a dark, swarthy way, but worse than that: she’s fucking cool. Instead of a dress, she’s wearing black trousers and a structured, strapless black top with a sharp, asymmetric neckline that shows off the tattoos on her shoulders and arms. Everyone standing in their group is listening attentively to her, and the way she swirls her drink—plain liquor on ice—just screams poise and confidence.

And it burns like acid to watch the way Evan’s eyes rest on her, the way their shoulders brush with easy familiarity, and the burn is exacerbated to fresh, vivid agony by the fact she’s exactly the kind of woman Evan likes.

No, that this is exactly the kind of woman heshouldbe with. Confident, self-possessed, someone whom he could love openly, with no conditions, no history, no baggage.

The woman turns her head ever so slightly, eyes almost meeting mine, and I whip around like I’ve been slapped, heart pounding. Facing Elle once more, I realise she’s long let go of my face.

“Him?” I say with a short, angry laugh. “That’s ancient history, Elle, come on. Can’t you see he’s moved on?”

Elle frowns and turns to look back at him. “What, the woman next to him? No chance. Isn’t she too old for him?”

I grab her arm and pull her away, out of the line of sight of Evan and his edgy brunette, half-hiding behind the people who are starting to dance in the dark space between the bar and the DJ’s set-up.

“She looks like she’d step on his neck,” I hiss at Elle, “and that’sexactlywhat he’s into.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “I think you’re fundamentally misunderstanding him. Your Evan doesn’t like youbecauseyou step on his neck. He likes you, andbecauseyou step on his neck, he likes having his neck stepped on.”

“If he liked me,” I say spitefully, “then why is he chatting up that woman and not me?”

“You’re jealous?” Elle says in a tone of surprise.

“Don’t be utterly ridiculous.”

“He’s not chatting her up, they’retalking. Those are probably his co-workers, look, they’re drinking a toast. Why don’t you go say hello? I’m sure he’d love to introduce you.”

I narrow my eyes at Elle, and she takes a step back under the sheer venom in my stare.

“Understand, Elle Laura Sinclair, that I would rather set fire to myself, this entire mansion, and everyone in it, than do that.”

“God, Sophie,” she mutters half into her glass, taking a gulp of her drink, “I never had you down as the jealous type.”

“I’mnotjealous,” I snap. “There’s nothing to be jealousof.”

“So you’re angry for no reason?”

“I’m not angry, I’m—”

“Desperately pent-up and horribly sexually frustrated?”

I blink at Elle. And then I smile.

“That’s exactly it.” Straightening myself, I search the crowd with a glance. “Where’s that guy that gave me his number earlier? The LA guy with the longish hair?”

“Now’sthe time you’ve decided to get over Evan?” Elle asks, agog. “Really?”

“Better than never.”