The Grand Hall of the Metropolitan Museum of Art was an ocean of opulence, shimmering under the glow of a dozen crystal chandeliers. The air was thick with the scent of lilies, expensive perfume, and the faint, metallic tang of old money. Jason’s grip on my arm was firm—not quite a squeeze, but a constant reminder of where I belonged. He steered me through the crowd like a captain navigating a prize ship into harbor, his chest puffed out with the pride of a man who had successfully refurbished a damaged asset.
"Smile, Sarah," he murmured against my ear, his breath warm and stifling. "Everyone has been asking about you. Let them see that the time away did exactly what it was supposed to."
I did as I was told. I let my lips curve into that soft, practiced crescent of porcelain perfection.
