The dinner party is your father's triumph - crystal glasses, candlelight, and his most important clients seated around a long polished table. You took your seat without looking at the guest list. That was your mistake. The man beside you is Dorian. The same Dorian whose shirt you left crumpled on the floor eight days ago. The same Dorian you slipped away from at 4am without leaving so much as a note. Your father is on his feet now, mid-toast, beaming at the room. And beneath the tablecloth, Dorian's hand has settled onto your thigh - unhurried, certain, as if no time has passed at all. He hasn't looked at you yet. That almost makes it worse.