Page 70 of Omega's Faith

"But it's not. It's just people trying to live good lives, take care of each other. Yes, Pastor David can be... intense. Yes, we have rules that seem strange to outsiders. But there's real love there. Real community."

"I believe you."

He looks surprised. "You do?"

I lean forward slightly. "I may not agree with everythingabout it, but I can see it matters to you."

"Thank you," he says softly.

Courses four and five pass—duck confit, then palate cleanser—while we trade stories. Him telling me about the time his brother Robert accidentally set the kitchen on fire trying to deep fry a turkey. Me explaining how I once "borrowed" Diana's Mercedes at fifteen and drove it into the fountain at the estate.

"She didn't murder you?"

"She wanted to. I was grounded for six months."

By the time Henri brings course six—beef Wellington that would make Gordon Ramsay weep—we're both more relaxed than I've seen us since the wedding. Maybe ever.

Henri arrives with dessert: an architectural marvel of chocolate and gold leaf.

"I have an idea," I say, the thought forming even as the words leave my mouth. "Come dancing with me."

"What?"

"Tonight. Right now. There's a place I know—exclusive, private. Just music and movement and—" I take a breath. "No alcohol. I promise. Stone cold sober, just dancing."

"Alex—"

"If I have even one drink, you can leave. Call a cab, go home, whatever you want." I pull out my wallet, extract my credit card, and slide it across the table to him. "Here. Take this. Your escape route if you need it."

He stares at the card like it might bite him. "You're serious."

"Dead serious. Look, we're never going to work. We both know that. I’m not going to try anything. Just come for a dance."

The silence stretches. Somewhere in the townhouse, a clock chimes ten. Then Jonah picks up the credit card, slips it into his pocket, and stands.

"Okay," he says. "Let's dance."

The club doesn't have a name, just an address and a certainquality of silence that money buys. The entrance is an unmarked door between a high-end law firm and a gallery that only opens by appointment.

The main floor is already pulsing with bodies when we arrive, but I guide Jonah up the stairs to the mezzanine level where the music is just as good but there's actually room to breathe.

He looks overwhelmed and trying to hide it, taking in the beautiful people in their calculated casual wear and the bartenders who look like they moonlight as models.

"It know it's a lot," I say close to his ear, having to lean in over the music.

"It's..." He turns to respond and suddenly we're close, so close I can see the gold flecks in his eyes, smell his honey-vanilla scent even over the club's expensive air filtration. "Very loud."

I laugh. "Come on."

I lead him onto the dance floor just as the music shifts to something with a dirty bass line that gets into your spine. For a moment, he stands there, uncertain, watching the bodies around us move like water.

"I don't really know how—"

"Don't think." I step closer, not quite touching but close enough that our body heat mingles. "Just feel the music. Let it tell you what to do."

He looks skeptical, but then his shoulders start to loosen, his hips finding the rhythm almost reluctantly. I match his movements, careful to keep space between us even though every instinct screams to pull him close.

"There you go," I encourage, and he flushes but doesn't stop moving.