9 hours ago
Colette chose to feign ignorance of her companion’s discomfort, though the porcelain mask of Sofia’s expression gave her pause. There was a sharpness in Sofia’s gaze, a tension in her posture that felt as brittle as glass and one wrong move might shatter it. Colette had no interest in provoking that. Instead, she kept her focus on the room..
She wasn’t naïve to opulence—she had been raised among one of the last obscenely wealthy families of New York, after all—but even she had to admit the Custody’s elite had elevated extravagance to an art form. The glittering chandeliers, the ocean of gowns and tuxedos, the undercurrent of power threading through every conversation—it felt like home, in a way that made her both awed and wary.
But Sofia’s sudden question broke the spell. It was spoken softly, gently, yet it sliced through Colette’s composure like a blade. She hesitated, unsure whether to answer or evade. Her chest tightened with the instinct to deflect, but the pull of the question—of him—was magnetic. Against her better judgment, her gaze drifted toward Carter.
And there he was.
Damn him.
He stood just across the room, impossibly poised, his tuxedo sculpted to his tall, lean frame as if it had been designed for no one else. His posture was effortless, his presence drawing her in without even trying. Colette hated how her eyes lingered on him, tracing the line of his shoulders, the set of his jaw, the slight curl of his lips as he spoke to someone. He looked perfect. He always looked perfect. It infuriated her.
And yet…
A memory slid, unbidden, to the forefront of her mind. Her fingers on his chest, tugging impatiently at his shirt. The taut lines of his abs beneath her palms, his skin hot to the touch. The way his mouth moved against skin, devouring her in that way that had always left her trembling, breathless, and completely undone.
Her cheeks warmed, and her pulse betrayed her, quickening despite her best efforts to quell it. She clenched her jaw, irritated—not at him, but at herself.
She snapped herself out of the memory, painfully aware that Sofia was waiting for an answer. Her companion’s gaze hadn’t wavered, and the weight of it was unbearable. There was no escaping the moment now.
Colette leaned in slightly, her voice dropping as she whispered, “I’m so sorry, Sofia.” The words tumbled out too quickly, too earnestly, betraying her very rare flustered state. She hated herself for it, but she couldn’t stop. “That’s Carter Volthström,” she continued, her voice hushed but tinged with frustration. “My ex.” She glanced toward him again—why couldn’t she stop looking?—then added, with a touch of exasperation, “And I guess he followed me here.”
The last word came out with a sharpness she didn’t intend, and she immediately regretted it. It wasn’t entirely fair, but then again, Carter never played fair either. Not with her, not with anyone. He was like a storm—chaotic, beautiful, impossible to ignore, and even harder to escape.
She wasn’t naïve to opulence—she had been raised among one of the last obscenely wealthy families of New York, after all—but even she had to admit the Custody’s elite had elevated extravagance to an art form. The glittering chandeliers, the ocean of gowns and tuxedos, the undercurrent of power threading through every conversation—it felt like home, in a way that made her both awed and wary.
But Sofia’s sudden question broke the spell. It was spoken softly, gently, yet it sliced through Colette’s composure like a blade. She hesitated, unsure whether to answer or evade. Her chest tightened with the instinct to deflect, but the pull of the question—of him—was magnetic. Against her better judgment, her gaze drifted toward Carter.
And there he was.
Damn him.
He stood just across the room, impossibly poised, his tuxedo sculpted to his tall, lean frame as if it had been designed for no one else. His posture was effortless, his presence drawing her in without even trying. Colette hated how her eyes lingered on him, tracing the line of his shoulders, the set of his jaw, the slight curl of his lips as he spoke to someone. He looked perfect. He always looked perfect. It infuriated her.
And yet…
A memory slid, unbidden, to the forefront of her mind. Her fingers on his chest, tugging impatiently at his shirt. The taut lines of his abs beneath her palms, his skin hot to the touch. The way his mouth moved against skin, devouring her in that way that had always left her trembling, breathless, and completely undone.
Her cheeks warmed, and her pulse betrayed her, quickening despite her best efforts to quell it. She clenched her jaw, irritated—not at him, but at herself.
She snapped herself out of the memory, painfully aware that Sofia was waiting for an answer. Her companion’s gaze hadn’t wavered, and the weight of it was unbearable. There was no escaping the moment now.
Colette leaned in slightly, her voice dropping as she whispered, “I’m so sorry, Sofia.” The words tumbled out too quickly, too earnestly, betraying her very rare flustered state. She hated herself for it, but she couldn’t stop. “That’s Carter Volthström,” she continued, her voice hushed but tinged with frustration. “My ex.” She glanced toward him again—why couldn’t she stop looking?—then added, with a touch of exasperation, “And I guess he followed me here.”
The last word came out with a sharpness she didn’t intend, and she immediately regretted it. It wasn’t entirely fair, but then again, Carter never played fair either. Not with her, not with anyone. He was like a storm—chaotic, beautiful, impossible to ignore, and even harder to escape.
![[Image: Colette-signature-rainbow.png]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/05/Colette-signature-rainbow.png)