The hand that had been wrapped around Silvia’s waist let go in an instant.
At the sound of a voice behind him, Shipley turned, looking toward its source. “Alright, just send it to me,” he replied.
From where Silvia stood, she could only see the sharp angle of Shipley’s jaw. Even without meeting his eyes, she felt the distance in him—and the gentleness he reserved for Vianne.
“Silvia, am I interrupting something?” Vianne’s tone was all innocence, but her gaze drifted—deliberately or not—toward the man beside Silvia.
It was the kind of coy look that could undo any man.
“No, you’re not interrupting anything. We weren’t doing anything special,” Shipley answered, his voice calm, yet the words left Silvia with the awkward urge to explain herself. It felt uncomfortably like a boyfriend caught in the act by his girlfriend—except, in this case, Silvia was supposed to be the girlfriend.
“Really? I thought maybe you two were about to...” Vianne trailed off, but everyone knew what she meant.
Silvia found it almost laughable, though her expression remained composed. “It’s getting late. I should head home.”
“I’ll go with you,” Shipley offered, taking the suit jacket from her hands. His movements seemed calculated, as if keeping his distance from Silvia, while at the same time edging closer to Vianne.
“Shipley, can I come with you guys?” Vianne asked, voice sweet.
“Of course,” Shipley replied, without the slightest hesitation.
But Vianne’s eyes settled on Silvia. “But Silvia hasn’t agreed yet.”
Silvia’s anger simmered, though she forced herself to stay cool. “You’re riding with Mr. Barlow,” she said flatly. “You don’t need my permission.”
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