“Uh,” he said to Damen, laughing uncertainly, “aren’t you going to introduce us?”
Damen opened his mouth.
Carissa beat him to it.
“Of course,” she said warmly. “I’m Carissa Hale. Damen’s wife.”
The man blinked.
The air changed.
Not dramatically at first. No gasps. No dropped glasses. Just the subtle intake that happens when a room realizes it may have just been standing inside a lie.
Nikki spoke too quickly. “She means—”
“I mean I’ve been legally married to Damen for ten years,” Carissa said. “Nikki is my younger sister.”
The man in burgundy actually looked at Jackson, as if maybe the older brother would save the situation by laughing it off. Jackson did not move.
A woman nearby said, “Wait, what?”
Another voice behind her: “I thought Nikki was the wife.”
“Yes,” Carissa said, still smiling, “Damen has apparently been under that impression socially for quite some time.”
“Carissa,” Damen said through clenched teeth, “stop.”
She turned to him. “Why? You asked for a performance. I’m participating.”
Phones came out.
Not many. A few. Enough.
Damen stepped closer and lowered his voice. “You are humiliating yourself.”