It was a Thursday evening at the Velvet Supper Club — the kind of place where the jazz never quite stops and the candles burn all the way down. Dorian was at the bar, nursing his second old fashioned. Vivienne arrived late, in a coat the color of midnight, and sat two stools away.

She ordered champagne. He said he preferred it too. They lied about many things that evening, but not about this: they both felt it immediately. Three years, a continent, and a thousand small moments later, here we are.