“I know,” she says. “But I want to get this over with, go home and live the rest of our days in fucking peace, so if I have to serve some pompous assholes their million dollar drinks, then so be it.”
Then she goes.
I post up against a column, arms folded, and watch. Every detail matters.
She weaves through the crowd, tray held steady at chin level. The dress is cut for movement, but the way she walks makes it clear that she’s here for a different kind of dance. She offers glasses to whomever beckons her.
A woman with pearls like a noose around her neck plucks a glass, then pats Eve on the shoulder. The smile she gives is pure condescension. Eve smiles back, wider, and the woman actually flinches.
Another tries to grab two glasses at once, fumbles, and soaks his sleeve. Eve wipes the spill with a napkin from her pocket, then steps away before he can say anything. He watches her ass as she leaves, jaw slack.
Another, this one old enough to remember the wars he paid to avoid, takes a flute and stares at her as if she is a monkey in a cage. He whispers something to his companion, who nods and writes it down.
At the center of the room, Eve hesitates. Then she walks up to the Board, clustered around the high table. She offers the tray. Steele takes a glass, holds it to the light, then to his nose, then drinks.
He nods, satisfied, and sets the empty back on the tray with a click. Eve meets his eyes, holds the stare for two full seconds, then moves on.
She never drops a glass. Never drops a smile.
But I see it in the way her hand tightens on the tray, in the way she sets her jaw.
I look for my brothers. Rhett is making rounds, talking to the whose who. No doubt trying to get some information to share with Caius.
Bam is by the coat check, eating canapés by the handful. He watches Dahlia like a hawk as she talks animatedly to Isolde. Every time someone gets too close, he steps forward, just a little, just enough.
I drink my whiskey and watch the clock.
After forty minutes, the pace slows. The crowd is drunker, louder, the questions for Eve more explicit.
A hedge funder slaps her on the ass as she passes. She doesn’t even blink, just keeps walking. The man looks around for applause, but none comes.
My hands fist at my sides.How fucking dare he touch what doesn’t belong to him?
The worst is a group of three, gathered by the dessert table. One is a Board member, one is a local politician, the last is the kind of man who buys his suits in bulk and his women by the night.
They corner her, make her pour a round of drinks, then stand in a semi-circle, blocking escape.
I see her mouth go tight.
The Board member runs a hand down her arm, not groping, just heavy enough to let her know he could.
“This is the one I told you about,” he says, voice loud enough for half the room to hear. “The scholarship pet.”
They laugh. It’s not even mean. It’s worse. It’s indifferent.
Eve laughs with them, loud, bright. “Who’s the real animal here?” she asks, then smiles, dazzling.
She walks away, leaves them laughing. I see the tremor in her fingers.
I lose sight of her only once. It’s not a mistake I ever make, but bodies packed shoulder to shoulder making line of sight a challenge. There’s a beat where I look left, then right, and she’s not there.
My pulse spikes.How many exits. How many hands could be on her. How fast can I clear the room if it goes bad.
I spot her thirty seconds later, back near the kitchen doors, talking to a man I don’t recognize. His tie is loosened, his cheeks are red, and his hands are moving too much. He blocks her escape, one palm braced on the marble column, the other dangling far to fucking close to her skin.
Eve laughs at something he says, but it’s not real. I see the flash of teeth, the flatness of her eyes. She tries to step around him. He grabs her wrist, not hard enough to bruise, but enough to stop her.
I cross the room. Fury has erupted under my skin. I slide through the crowd, bodies parting, eyes turning. I keep my hands loose at my sides, no fists.
