Senne’s morning began with the thrum of chaos—clipboard clutched tight, wind teasing strands of hair from her crooked ponytail, the hard set of her jaw warning off slackers as she wove through the festival prep. Her faded black jeans hugged slim hips, the worn knees betraying endless hours on her feet. She barked orders, dark eyes sharp, yet every so often her gaze flickered toward the horizon, longing skimming the edges of her guarded composure.

She nearly ran into Lessa carrying armfuls of wineglasses, the other woman flushed and breathless, tendrils of caramel hair tumbling from a rushed braid. Lessa muttered an apology, but Senne just arched a brow. “You’ll want to avoid Corven’s precious barrels—he’ll have a meltdown if you drop even one glass.” Lessa’s lips twisted in a grateful smirk, a shy dimple briefly showing. For a heartbeat, the air between them softened—a silent agreement, as if both tasted the strain behind their facades.

Senne turned away before it could become intimacy. She didn’t do closeness anymore; not after Briq. But when Lessa called after her, voice small and raw—“If you ever need help, just ask”—the words echoed, unspooling a thread of warmth through Senne’s chest she instantly knotted up again.

Meanwhile, Briq, immaculate as ever in tailored navy slacks and a starched white shirt, prowled through the crowd, eyes hooded and hungry for weakness. He watched Corven and Lessa share a private laugh over the wine-tasting schedule, Lessa’s fingers brushing Corven’s wrist. Briq’s jaw clenched, lips thinning. He slid his hands into his pockets, hiding the way his knuckles blanched with tension.

Briq soon found reason to corner Senne backstage, catching her alone in the cluttered hush behind the main tent. He blocked her exit, too close, his cologne sharp and familiar. Senne met him with a roll of her eyes, but her breathing stuttered. “I see you’re still infuriating,” she shot, arms folded tight across her chest. Briq’s smile was all bite, yet his gaze dipped—lingering on the curve of her mouth, the flushed beginnings of a blush.

A memory crashed between them, hot and reckless—the storeroom years ago, Senne pressed against cold crates, Briq’s shirt yanked halfway up as her hands clawed at his back. Their bodies had collided with an urgency that tasted like defiance: her gasp, his grip on her hips, the scramble to feel something rather than nothing. For a flicker, both felt it again now—need, regret, resentment churning in each heavy breath.

In the present, Briq’s hand hovered near Senne’s waist, but she pushed him away—hard enough for his back to collide with a shelf. “Don’t pretend you care,” she spat, blinking fiercely, the beginnings of tears burning behind her scowl. Briq’s mask cracked; for an instant, he looked lost. But pride yanked him upright, and he straightened his cuffs. “You’ll talk when you need something,” he muttered, voice low, wounded.

Senne fled, bracing herself against the chill settling over her heart. No one could see how badly he still electrified her—how every harsh word felt like a plea for connection she could never allow herself to need.

Later, she trailed Lessa to a dim corridor near the cellars and caught a glimpse through a half-open door: Corven, broad-shouldered in a flannel rolled at the sleeves, held Lessa close. His hand swept her cheek, brushing away tension. Her lips parted, eyes shimmering as she pressed a desperate kiss to his mouth, letting herself unravel in his arms. Senne’s breath stilled, jealousy and fascination battling in her chest.

She slipped her phone from her pocket and raised it, hands trembling ever so slightly. The shutter clicked—a stolen photograph of forbidden love, proof that power could shift with a single secret.

To be continued...