I’ve never known this uncaring, distant, and angry Carrero. I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all. I want to throw myself at his feet, cry, and hold him back from going, but I won’t. I pull my chin up defiantly and push down the hurt, replacing it with anger and a glare; I let that trained part of me take over in all her ice-maiden coolness. That old reliable self-preservation has kicked in.

I have pride!

“Enjoy yourself.” I turn on my heel, close to tears. Inside ...