When we arrived, the grand steps of the museum were covered in a crimson carpet.

Flashbulbs went off in a steady, blinding rhythm as the city’s wealthy arrived in their furs and diamonds.

I walked past the security barriers, holding my VIP media pass tight in my hand.

The lobby was a cavern of marble and gold, filled with the hum of expensive chatter and clinking champagne flutes.

I saw Tristan almost immediately.

He was standing near the grand staircase, looking handsome and polished in a midnight-blue tuxedo.

Khloe Dupont was at his side, her arm looped through his, wearing a dress that looked like it was made of liquid gold.

They were talking to a group of journalists, Tristan gesturing with an easy, practiced charm.

My chest tightened, but I forced myself to walk forward.

I waited until Khloe stepped away to speak with a photographer, leaving Tristan alone for a brief moment.

I stepped into his line of sight.

Tristan turned, his smile faltering for a fraction of a second when he saw me.