The air in the VVIP box, which had been thick with a burgeoning, delicate heat between Sarah and Sebastian, suddenly turned ice-cold. Sarah felt the phantom sensation of the ice shavings on her forehead turn into a trail of freezing water, mimicking the cold sweat that broke out across her spine.
But Sarah's eyes was fixed on an anomaly in the corner, Martin was moving. He navigated the ballroom floor like a man possessed, his eyes darting toward the elevated sections. He looked haggard—the sharp, boyish charm he usually weaponized was replaced by a jagged, frantic energy. He was holding a glass of scotch, not champagne, and he was downing it with a desperation that screamed of a crumbling mind.
"He's coming this way," Sarah whispered, her voice barely a thread of sound. "Sebastian, he's coming to the VVIP stairs."
