The cold struck Silver's overheated skin like a physical blow the instant she pushed through the ballroom's heavy double doors, but she welcomed the sharp bite of November air against her flushed cheeks. She didn't pause to adjust to the temperature change or consider the impracticality of wearing a formal gown in a Connecticut snowstorm. She just needed distance—from the suffocating elegance of the Winter Gala, from Americus's well-intentioned meddling, from the weight of dozens of curious stares following her dramatic exit.
The courtyard beyond the ballroom stretched before her like something from a winter fairy tale, blanketed in fresh snow that transformed Yale's Gothic architecture into a crystalline wonderland. Antique lamp posts cast amber pools of light through the steadily falling flakes, creating an atmosphere that would have been magical under different circumstances. Now it simply felt like sanctuary.
