LINES WE SHOULDN'T CROSS
Tracy's POV
The taxi's headlights cut ribbons through the drizzle while the car hummed along the wet streets. I sat on the back seat with my hands folded in my lap, the gala's noise still ringing faintly in my ears — clinking glasses, a laugh I could not stop replaying, the hum of a room that had felt both full and empty at once.
The driver had been waiting by the valet when we left. Ethan himself had given me a small, guarded nod near the entrance — the kind of nod that said he'd made sure I was safe without making a scene. I'd thanked him, stumbled through something polite, then let the night swallow the rest. I had not run. I had not fled. I'd left with calm steps and a fit of nerves pressed neatly behind a smile.
