The applause was a physical force, a wave of sound that washed over the stage. Harrison Knowles beamed, his hand resting proudly on Angelo's shoulder. He took the microphone from the stand, his voice booming over the lingering noise.
"A match made in heaven!" he declared, raising his glass. "To my daughter, Annalise, and her future husband, Angelo Molina!"
The cheer that followed was louder, more certain. But as Annalise's eyes swept the room, she saw the truth on their faces. The shock. The frantic, whispered questions. The barely concealed glee of a fresh scandal to dissect for weeks to come.
Greggory felt the sound waves hit his chest, but he couldn't process them. His world had narrowed to the sight of Angelo's fingers laced with Annalise's, the obscene sparkle of the diamond on her hand. The blood drained from his face, leaving a cold, numb sensation.
Then, the numbness receded, replaced by a slow, burning heat that started in his gut and spread through his veins.
He watched Annalise on stage. She wasn't smiling at Angelo. She was performing. Her shoulders were rigid, her grip on Angelo's hand was too tight. It was the posture of a prisoner.
A slow, knowing smirk spread across Greggory's lips.
She was trapped. Harrison had forced this on her, this cold, brutish alliance with a man like Molina. And instead of crying, instead of running, she was staging the most dramatic cry for help he had ever seen. She was showing him, in front of everyone, that she had no other way out.
He remembered all the times she had melted for him. The way her eyes would light up at a simple compliment. The way she would rearrange her entire schedule just for the chance to have lunch with him. A woman that devoted didn't just vanish overnight. She was fighting for him, in the only way she knew how.
On stage, Annalise and Angelo were handed champagne flutes. They turned to each other, a perfunctory, lifeless toast. As they drank, Angelo's free hand settled on the small of her back, his fingers pressing into the red silk. A possessive, claiming gesture.
Greggory's jaw tightened. He saw the move for what it was: a warning. A crude display of ownership from a man who knew he didn't truly have her. And he saw the flicker of revulsion in Annalise's eyes as she subtly leaned away from the touch.
He felt a surge of adrenaline. He wasn't just a guest anymore. He was the hero of this story. The savior.
He straightened his tie, the smooth silk a familiar comfort under his fingers. He puffed out his chest, his posture shifting from that of a spectator to a principal player.
Annalise thanked her father with a kiss on the cheek, a final, dutiful gesture before her great rebellion. She turned and walked to the stairs, her movements graceful but stiff. Angelo followed closely behind.
Greggory began to move, but he stopped, waiting for her signal.
As she reached the bottom step, Annalise's eyes met his across the crowded floor.
He let his mind drift back, just for a second, to all the times they'd used their little tricks to communicate across a crowded room. He remembered a charity auction where he'd wanted her to stop bidding against an associate. He'd made the signal then, a subtle, controlling gesture that had always worked, a silent command she had always obeyed. He lifted his hand, keeping it low and discreet. He slowly, deliberately, rubbed his thumb against the side of his index finger. It was his signal, the one he used to command her, a silent reminder of who was in control. It meant, Wait for my lead.
He watched her face, expecting a flicker of recognition, of hope.
He got nothing.
Her eyes were like chips of ice. She held his gaze for a second, her expression utterly blank, and then she turned away, dismissing him as she began speaking to a white-haired woman in a pearl necklace.
Greggory's smile faltered for a second, a crack in the facade. But he patched it over instantly.
She's being careful, he told himself. Molina is right there. She can't risk it.
It only made him more determined. He had to get to her.
He started moving, a polite murmur of "pardon me" on his lips as he weaved through the clusters of gossiping guests. He was a man on a mission, his heart hammering with a mix of righteous fury and anticipation. He could already picture the scene: her face, awash with relief, as he took her hand and led her away from this nightmare.
He saw her glance over her shoulder, her eyes tracking his progress. She slowed her pace, letting the woman in pearls drift ahead.
She was waiting for him. She was giving him his opening.
Angelo leaned down, his mouth close to Annalise's ear. He whispered something, his expression unreadable.
Greggory saw Annalise shake her head, her lips forming a sharp, clear "No." Then she glanced in his direction, a look of grim determination on her face. Angelo smirked and took a step back, giving her space. The meaning was clear to Greggory: she was telling her jailer to back off. She would handle this.
The path was clear.
Greggory finally reached her. He stopped a foot in front of her, his face arranged into what he hoped was a look of profound love and understanding. The savior, arrived at last.
The air crackled. The guests nearby fell silent, their eyes wide, sensing the climax of the evening's drama.
He opened his mouth, the first words of his grand, liberating speech ready on his tongue. "Annalise, come with me. I'll get you out of here."
But before he could utter a sound, she raised her champagne flute. Her gaze lifted, moving right past his shoulder, focusing on something behind him as if he weren't there at all.
Her expression wasn't one of fear, or desperation, or love.
It was the bored, detached look of a person watching a particularly uninspired clown.
