"You left because you were busy?" I snapped as the valet shut the car door.
"I had meetings," Gaspard said. His voice was flat. The chandeliers over the ballroom windows made him look even colder.
Lana stepped between us like she always did. "India, breathe. This is a gala, not a trial."
"This is my dress on a stage," I said. "I designed it for someone. I thought that someone would be here."
Gaspard's jaw didn't move. "You were always too young."
That line landed harder than anything else in the room. People near us turned. Someone stopped mid-sip of champagne and watched.
Lana's hand tightened on my wrist. "Who says that to a woman in her own show?"
He didn't answer Lana. He looked over them like they were part of the scenery he tolerated.
"Why are you telling me that now?" I asked. "Four years. You could have written. You could have said—"
"I said nothing because there was nothing to say," he cut in. "You should have known."
"You kept my letters," I said. "You kept my sketches. You never answered."
"Keeping doesn't equal thinking," he said. "You romanticized everything."
A soft laugh came from a corner and it sounded cruel. I wanted to reach for him, to shake everything out of him, but the room had a thousand eyes.
Lana didn't let him off. "You walked in like you owned the room. You expect her to bow because you
