The acoustics of the main hall were perfect–a testament to the late nights William and Sophie had spent correcting the design. The orchestra began a sweeping waltz, the sound filling the atrium with a warmth that chased away the cold architectural lines.
“Dance with me,” William murmured, not waiting for an answer.
He pulled Sophie onto the floor. It wasn’t the stiff, obligatory shuffle of a business partner; it was fluid and instinctive. Sophie followed his lead effortlessly, her head tipped back, laughing as he spun her.
For a heartbeat, the “Ice King” vanished. William smiled–a genuine, unguarded expression that reached his eyes.
From the mezzanine, the investors watched, nodding in approval. The “unstable widower” narrative Cynthia had planted was dead; William looked strong, anchored by the woman in green.
Across the room, Cynthia Sharpe watched them, her champagne glass trembling in her hand. Her plan to paint the Conservatory as a “tomb” was failing. Instead of a funeral, William was hosting a rebirth, and seeing him smile at another woman made her blood boil.