I felt the floor shift. The room around me blurred, softened. Everything she said was wrapped in ribbons, but the message underneath was sharp and unmistakable. I stared at her, heart pounding in my throat, my mouth dry with the effort of staying still.
She gave a final smile—gracious, victorious—and brushed a hand over her sleek hair. "Anyway," she said, as if she hadn't just set fire to the air between us, "I'll let you two mingle. Just had to say hello."
And then she was gone. Just like that. Dissolving into the party, into laughter and champagne, leaving behind the scent of roses and the echo of something cruelly unfinished.
Thomas shifted beside me. His hand came up like he might touch my arm, but it hovered there, uncertain.

"I... didn't know she was going to say that," he mumbled, eyes darting after Laura, not me. "It wasn't meant to sound...so odd.." He trailed off, 

Odd, I wouldn't choose that word.. but I said nothing.
A little later, the band began to play—a slow, honeyed swing number, the kind of tune that feels like a memory you can't quite place. It floated through the air like smoke, curling into the corners of the room, softening the edges of everything. People began to drift toward the dance floor, pulled by the music, the warmth, the illusion.
And then—like clockwork—Laura reappeared.
She was already smiling when she reached him. Like she'd been waiting for her cue, rehearsing her line.
"Dance with me?" she asked Thomas, her voice a practiced mix of teasing and sweetness. "I promise I won't step on your feet."
He froze. Just for a moment. His eyes found mine across the room—uncertain, flickering with something that looked like guilt but not enough of it. He hesitated, but only briefly.
"Go on!" James shouted from his spot by the bar, sloshing scotch over the rim of his glass. "You're young! Have some damn fun. I'll also be dancing with my friend tonight."
And just like that, he pulled Linny into his arms—Linny, the so-called family friend, the one everyone knew had once shared more than meals with him, everyone knew she was never "just a friend", but of course no one said anything.. The crowd laughed. Not because it was funny, but because that's what you do in rooms like this—pretend, applaud, drink.
Thomas looked at me again, eyes pleading now, soft and weak, as if asking for permission. Or forgiveness. Maybe both. Then looking at his father, he let Laura take his hand and lead him to the floor.
I stayed frozen in place, beside Jeanine, our bodies stiff in the stillness while the music played on and our husbands danced with women who weren't supposed to matter. Women who smiled too easily. Touched too boldly. Claimed what wasn't theirs with a kind of casual confidence that only comes from being welcomed, or at least never told no.
Jeanine didn't say a word at first. But her hand tightened around the stem of her wine glass, knuckles white, a vein twitching visibly at her temple.
Finally, through gritted teeth, she whispered, "Men right? They just need attention."
Her voice cracked on that last word, the weight of it hit me in the chest like a stone.
She nodded once. Slow. Heavy. "Smile through it, sweetheart," she said, raising her glass with the weariness of a thousand nights just like this one. 
But I couldn't.
I couldn't smile through this. I couldn't pretend that watching my husband sway with another woman, even he looked tense, while the rest of the room clapped. When Thomas finally came back, his face was flushed, his eyes uncertain. He looked like he knew. Like he'd felt it too—that subtle but unmistakable shift. The widening crack that no amount of laughter or music could cover.