She crossed the garden slowly, feeling the gravity of every stare, hearing whispers rise behind her steps, yet something stronger than fear guided her forward until she stood directly before the most scrutinized man in New York.
Then she knelt gracefully.
The air transformed instantly.
Guests froze mid gesture, conversations disintegrated into stunned silence, and for one suspended heartbeat the entire estate seemed carved from glass. Erin lifted her gaze, her green eyes unwavering, untouched by pity or intimidation.
“Mr. Moretti,” she said gently, her voice calm yet impossibly firm. “Would you grant me the honor of a dance?”
Dario stared at her as though reality itself had shifted unexpectedly.
“Erin,” he answered quietly, his voice rough with disbelief. “You understand that I cannot dance in the traditional sense.”
Her smile carried neither sweetness nor sorrow, only quiet strength.
“Then we shall redefine tradition together,” she replied without hesitation.
“You risk ridicule, unemployment, and endless gossip,” he warned softly, his composure fragile beneath sincerity.