The music had softened, taking on a gentler rhythm that signaled the night's descent into its final hour. The clinking of glasses grew less frequent, the laughter more muted, and the ever-shifting tide of guests began to slow.
But Iris Vale hadn't moved.
From behind the shelter of a marble column near the side entrance of the ballroom, she remained still—arms loosely folded across her chest, her sharp eyes fixed on a small cluster of people across the room.
Alex.
He stood with his hands in his pockets, posture casual, but not careless. Next to him were Edger Thorne, Ana, and the evening's host—Chairman Philip Charles. Just moments ago, Judge Gallagher had walked away from them, fading into the crowd like a serpent retreating into the underbrush.
Yet Iris's attention hadn't followed the Judge. It had locked firmly onto Alex.
