I look away, blinking hard. The glittering ballroom blurs. The chatter, the clinking glasses, the smooth jazz from the band – it all recedes into a dull roar.
“Hols?” Charlie’s voice is soft beside me. Her hand finds mine, squeezing. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I say, forcing myself to make eye contact with her. “Just… the dress is a little tight. Too much lasagna.”
Charlie doesn’t call me on my lie. She just squeezes my hand again. “One more champagne, then we stake out a spot near the stage. I overheard in the ladies room that Denton is supposed to speak later. Probably accepting some ‘Humanitarian of the Year’ award for being a giant emotionally constipated…” She trails off, catching my flinch. “Sorry. Another crab cake?”
I shake my head, my appetite gone. “No, thanks.” I drain the rest of my champagne.
Charlie flags down a passing waiter and swaps our empty flutes for full ones. “Let’s head to the stage so we can get good seats.”
We weave through the crowd again. My dress feels less like armor now, and more like a costume I’m not pulling off. Every laugh feels too loud, every glance feels like scrutiny. I keep my eyes fixed on Charlie’s burgundy-clad back.
We find two empty chairs near the side of the stage, partially shielded by a towering arrangement of frosted branches and white roses.
I sink into the plush chair, grateful for its solid feel beneath me. Charlie perches on the edge of hers, scanning the room like a general surveying a battlefield.
“No sign of the Grinch yet,” she announces after a moment. “Probably lurking in a shadowy corner, brooding over his life choices.”
I don’t want to see him. The mere thought of seeing him makes me feel sick to my stomach.
I focus on the stage which is empty for now, just a sleek podium bearing the Blades’ logo.
Maybe Charlie was wrong. Maybe coming here was the worst idea ever. Maybe seeing him will shatter me completely.
And then, I feel it.
A shift in the air. The low hum of conversation dips. Heads turn. A path seems to clear near the entrance to the VIP lounge.
My breath catches. I don’t want to look. Ihaveto look.
He’s there.
Denton Blake.
Standing near the archway, deep in conversation with Coach Martinez. He’s wearing an impeccable black tux, tailored to his powerful frame, the stark white of his shirt a sharp contrast against his tanned throat.
He looks devastatingly handsome but in a cold, controlled kind of way, like he’s carved from marble. Nothing like the man who’d kissed me under the mistletoe.
Coach Martinez says something, claps Denton on the shoulder. Denton nods, his expression unreadable from this distance. He lifts a hand, runs it through his hair in a gesture I know means frustration or tension. The movement is achingly familiar. My traitorous heart gives a painful lurch.
He turns slightly, scanning the room. His gaze sweeps past the silent auction tables, past clusters of laughing guests… and lands directly on me.
Time stops.
I can’t look away. It’s like being pinned. Exposed. Every carefully constructed defense, every layer of numb detachment, is stripped bare in that single look.
I see it all. The sharp planes of his face, the tight set of his jaw, the shadows beneath his eyes that speak of sleepless nights.
But it’s his eyes that hold me captive. They seem… tormented. A storm of emotions I can’t decipher – regret?Anguish? A desperate, raw intensity that steals the breath from my lungs.
Now, looking into his eyes across this gulf of broken promises and his own choosing, that memory feels like a knife twisting in the wound. The pain is immediate, breathtaking. It rips through the numbness, sharp and hot, leaving me gasping silently. My fingers tighten convulsively around the champagne flute. The cool glass bites into my skin.
He doesn’t look away. His gaze holds mine, heavy with a weight I can’t bear. It’s a silent communication.I see you. I know what I did. I’m sorry?Or maybe just,This hurts me too.I can’t tell. All I know is the agony reflected in his stormy eyes mirrors the shattering inside me.
Charlie’s hand lands on my arm, a warm, steady pressure. “Breathe, Hols,” she murmurs urgently beside me. “Just breathe. Don’t let him see.”
I drag in a ragged breath, tearing my gaze away from his. I look down at my lap, at the rich emerald velvet suddenly blurring. The cold numbness is gone, replaced by a raw, aching vulnerability.
