The muscles in his neck tightened. He drew himself up even taller, though he didn't need the height to tower over her. She had seen through him already. He was angry, and felt exposed, but there was something more than that, too. She'd guessed what he'd been thinking and derided him for it before he'd even started. There was the thought: am I really so predictable? It came to his mind and it stayed there, lurking in the background, and it made him feel small, and probably that was why he'd stood up taller and puffed out his chest a bit.

"Enjoy your weekend sitting at home alone," he bit back. This was nowhere near as biting as he'd wanted it to be, and it would probably fall flat if she had other plans after this party, which was entirely possible. The social season may have been officially over but it hadn't entirely wound down yet, and even a working woman was bound to get a few invites. Still, it was the best he could do in the moment, so he'd have to settle for it and hope that it hurt (did he want it to?).

He stalked away, in an unexpectedly poor mood. It hung on him like a damp cloak through most of the rest of the party. It was only when the dinner plates were cleared that evening and Oz was finally shown to his room (one he had no particular intention of sharing tonight) that it finally occurred to him: she'd been watching him talk to the blond woman.

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