My grandfather's face creased with worry. "Connor? Son, what's wrong?"
I tried to answer him, but my tongue felt disconnected from my brain.
Harris tugged on my arm, pulling me to my feet. The room tilted dangerously, and I stumbled against the table.
"Careful with the merchandise," my mother hissed, looking around to make sure no one was watching.
Merchandise. That's all I was to her.
Some distant part of my brain, the part that was still functioning through sheer panic, screamed at me that if I left this room with Harris, I might never be seen again. I needed to do something—anything—to get away.
In what felt like slow motion, I saw my water glass within reach. With deliberate clumsiness, I lurched forward and swept my arm across the table. The glass toppled over, sending water cascading onto Harris's pants and across my mother's expensive dress.
"You idiot!" she shrieked, jumping to her feet.
Harris's grip loosened in surprise and I seized the moment. I shoved away from the table, nearly knocking over my chair.
"Bathroom," I slurred, gesturing vaguely. "Gonna be sick."
"I'll go with him," Harris said quickly, reaching for me again.
I dodged his grasp with drunken grace I didn't know I possessed. "Private," I insisted, already staggering away.
"Let him go," my mother snapped, dabbing at her dress with a napkin. "He won't get far like this."
She was right about that. My legs felt like they were made of rubber, and the floor seemed to roll beneath my feet like the deck of a ship in a storm. But fear is a powerful motivator, and right then, I was terrified.
I lurched toward the exit, bumping into a waiter who steadied me with concerned hands.
"Sir, are you alright?"
"Fine," I mumbled, pushing past him. "Just need air."
I heard Harris saying something to my mother, his tone urgent. I didn't look back. I focused every ounce of my fading concentration on putting one foot in front of the other, making it through the banquet hall doors and into the corridor beyond.
The hallway stretched before me, elegant wallpaper and plush carpet blurring into a tunnel. I heard a sharp voice behind me—Harris—and panic gave me another burst of energy. I turned randomly down a side corridor, then another, trying to put as much distance between us as possible.
"Connor!" The voice echoed off the walls. "Don't make this difficult!"
Too late for that, asshole.
I staggered on, using the wall for support as the drug pulled me deeper into its grip. Sweat beaded on my forehead and my heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to escape.
Just like me.
I careened down the corridor like a pinball in a machine, bouncing from one wall to the other. The plush carpet muffled my stumbling steps, which was probably the only thing saving me from immediate discovery.
Each breath burned in my lungs as I fought to stay conscious. Whatever my mother had slipped me was powerful stuff, turning my blood to sludge and my thoughts to fragments that scattered like marbles on a tilted floor.
The hotel's elegant wallpaper swirled and pulsed around me, patterns morphing into faces that seemed to mock my escape attempt. I blinked hard, trying to focus.
A distant part of me recognized the hotel's opulence—the gilded sconces casting warm light, the antique tables with fresh flower arrangements, and the occasional oil painting of stern-faced rich people judging me as I staggered past.
Bet they never had to run from their own parents.
My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to punch its way out of my chest. Sweat plastered my hair to my forehead and soaked through my shirt, making it cling uncomfortably to my back. My legs moved on autopilot, heavy and uncoordinated.
A sharp voice called my name from somewhere behind me, echoing off the walls. "Connor! This is ridiculous. Stop!"
