Stephen starts toward the door to leave. “You will,” he throws over his shoulder.
The others rise around him. Before they leave, Mace turns back. “And Lucien,” he says, serious again. “Remember who you swore to be. Don’t let this drag you back into that world.”
“I won’t,” I say. “This was the last time.” They file out, leaving me alone in the quiet. I twist my chair and look out at the skyline, lights glowing across the city that never sleeps.
If she’s at the gala, I will go. I will show her every truth I have. And I hope to God it’s enough.
TWENTY-EIGHT
BRIAR
The flashof cameras hits us the moment we step out of the car. Stacy squeezes my hand and beams like she was born for this, which, to be honest, she might have been. I straighten my shoulders, force my spine to hold up, and tell myself not to trip in front of a line of photographers who look like they could smell fear.
“Ready?” she murmurs.
“Not even a little,” I say, but I smile anyway.
We step onto the red carpet together.
Stacy is in a deep-emerald gown that hugs her curves like it was tailored to her body, and not off a rack. The dress has a structured sweetheart neckline and thin straps that show off her shoulders, the skirt falling in a sleek column with a high slit up one leg. Her hair is swept into a low chignon at the nape of her neck, with a few soft curls pulled free around her face. Gold earrings catch the light when she turns her head, making her look glamorous and sharp all at once.
I went a different route. My gown is a soft champagne color with a subtle shimmer, the fabric clinging at the bodice without being too much. The neckline is a gentle curve, demure enoughfor a fundraiser yet low enough that Lucien would definitely notice. The back dips to my shoulder blades, the skirt flares slightly from the breast down, empire cut and very flattering. My hair is swept up into a loose twist, pinned with tiny pearl clips, a few waves left to frame my face. The bruising on my jaw is gone now, the stitches on my lip removed. The memories are not.
I feel like I’m wearing someone else’s life. Someone polished and confident. Someone who hasn’t been beaten in a café bathroom or had her ex-husband threaten everyone she loves. Someone who’s soul mate doesn’t take matters into his own hands and kills for them.
“Looking good, ladies,” one of the photographers calls.
We pose together, shoulders touching, hands around each other’s waists. Cameras flash. The Met rises behind us, grand and imposing. For a second I let myself breathe, let myself enjoy the moment. This is the kind of event I once dreamed of running. High society, art, money, power, and all for a good cause, numerous charities that would welcome a generous donation.
If only everything else wasn’t such a mess.
We move along the carpet slowly as more photos are taken. Stacy whispers small jokes in my ear to keep me from locking up. I cling to her like a lifeline.
Inside, the marble hall glows with warm light. Staff in black tie move efficiently, taking coats, directing donors, answering questions. It’s exactly how I planned it. Red carpet, check-in, champagne, flow into the main hall. Everything is in place.
“Seating check,” Stacy says, taking the lead.
We find the printed board. I scan the names, expecting to see both of us at the corporate sponsors’ table I had carefully crafted. Instead, my eyes snag on a different heading.
Moretti.
Our names are there. “Of course,” I mutter.
Stacy follows my gaze and snorts. “Well, that is new.”
“I didn’t put us there.”
“No one asked you,” she says lightly. “You’re just the woman who planned the whole event.”
I stare at the board for a moment. Of course Lucien did this. He wants me within reach. To corner me at his table. And the stupid part is I’m not even mad. I’m relieved. It’s too late to change anything now with staff already guiding guests to their tables. We fall in behind a small cluster of donors heading toward the main hall.
Inside, the Met is transformed. Round tables draped in white linen and topped with massive arrangements of white flowers and greenery surround a central stage. A large screen plays images of the different charities’ work, while the orchestra in the corner plays something classical and low.
We reach the Moretti table. Lucien is already there. My heart stutters in my chest when I see him. He stands as we approach, tall and impossibly handsome in a perfectly cut black tuxedo. His tattoos are visible on his neck and at the cuff of his hands, yet he’s polished and so damn good-looking that I ache at the sight of him. The white dress shirt, the bow tie, the lines of his body, the way he owns the space he stands in, he looks like sin and salvation all wrapped in one.
His eyes lock on to mine and everything else fades. I’ve missed him so much it aches. The sound of his voice. The weight of his hand on the small of my back. The way he looks at me like I’m the only woman in a room full of diamonds.
“Briar,” he says, and there is something raw in the way my name leaves his mouth.
