Caleb offered Lydia his hand, and for a few heartbeats, she let herself imagine the world without watchers. His palm was rough, steady, and when he placed his other hand at her waist, it was firm without being cruel.
The music started. They moved. And for a few bars, she almost believed she could belong in her own body. Then her hem caught. She stumbled.
Caleb caught her fast, tightening his hold, but the room had already decided what it wanted. Laughter rose like a tide. Victoria’s voice sliced through it with theatrical sympathy. “Oh dear.”
That was when Caleb broke. He turned toward the crowd, his hand still at Lydia’s waist like an anchor, and his voice dropped into something that made the room quiet out of instinct.
“I was engaged once,” he said. “Her name was Catherine.” Lydia felt the muscles beneath his hand tighten, as if saying the name reopened an old wound.
“She was beautiful. Refined. Everything you people worship.” He let the words hang, then continued, eyes fixed on some point beyond the room. “I loved her the way young men love. Completely. Stupidly. I built a house in my mind around her and called it a future.”
His mouth twisted. “Then she met a banker out of Denver with softer hands and better prospects, and she told me I was convenient. A place to wait until something better came along.”
The silence sharpened, turning the air into a blade.
“I told myself after that that love was weakness,” Caleb said, and now his gaze swept the room, daring anyone to blink. “That letting someone in just hands them a weapon.”
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