The music was still playing when I walked back in.

That was the cruelest part.

The afterparty had slipped into its second phase, that hour when champagne tastes easier and bodies move closer, when laughter stops being polite and starts being loud. Shoes were abandoned under tables. Jackets hung off chairs. The band had switched to something rhythmic and indulgent, and the dance floor was alive with careless joy.

The moment I stepped into the hall, something felt wrong.

It was not one thing. It ...