The noise of the party began to fade, replaced by the quiet hum of the air conditioning.

I reached the end of the corridor, near a dimly lit room filled with old landscape paintings.

A figure stepped out from the doorway, blocking my path.

It was Tristan.

He looked down at me, his smile slow and mocking.

“We need to talk, Kate,” he said.

I tried to step around him, but he shifted his weight, blocking the corridor.

“I have nothing to say to you, Tristan,” I said.

My hand tightened around the strap of my evening bag.

The USB drive felt heavy against my side.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he said, reaching out to grip my elbow.

His fingers were cold through the thin fabric of my sleeve.

Before I could pull away, he guided me backward into the dark gallery room.

The smell of old oil paint and floor wax hung thick in the air.

He shut the heavy oak door behind us, cutting off the faint music from the ballroom.

The room was lit only by small picture lights shining on gold-framed landscapes.