"If this is a love triangle, I'd like to opt out and just eat cheese instead."
The summit's Seoul mixer was being held in a rooftop garden that looked like someone had spilled Pinterest over a five-star hotel. There were fairy lights, champagne flutes with gold leaf, and centerpieces so delicate Ava was afraid to breathe near them.
She was dressed to kill.
Not in the "accidental femme fatale" way, but in the intentional, slightly unhinged, I-will-win-this-wedding-arc kind of way.
Black velvet pantsuit. Gold heels. Red lipstick so sharp it could be weaponized.
Ryan, trailing behind her in a fitted midnight suit, had barely looked away from her all evening.
"I feel like I should be concerned," he murmured, taking two glasses of prosecco off a passing tray.
"Why?"
"Because you only wear velvet when you're plotting."
Ava sipped. "Maybe I'm plotting to ravish you later."
Ryan choked on his drink.
"See?" she said. "Now you're prepared for anything."
