The truth of it slams into me harder than the fear ever could. My father, the donors, the cameras — they blur, all of them, until there’s only Triston. The man who has haunted me, protected me, pushed me, claimed me. And in the middle of this storm of whispers and judgment, he is the only thing that feels like peace.
I lean into him, resting my forehead against his chest. “Then don’t let go.”
His arms tighten instantly, like he’s been waiting his whole life to hear those words. “Never.”
The dance continues, though I don’t know how. My body moves with his because it always has, like we’ve been choreographed by something older than us. I can feel the stares digging into my back, the silent fury radiating from my father, but I refuse to look away from Triston now.
“You just set the world on fire,” I murmur against his suit.
His laugh rumbles under my cheek. “Good. Let it burn.”
I close my eyes, letting the music carry us, pretending for just a moment that we’re the only two people alive.
When the song ends, applause rises — hesitant, awkward, fractured. Some clap because they don’t know what else to do. Others because they’re secretly thrilled by scandal. I don’t move, not until Triston eases me back just enough to press a kiss to my temple.
The room spins with whispers. But all I hear is him.
And for the first time, I don’t care who knows.
Chapter Nine
Sammie
The song ends and the air goes thin.
I’m still in the circle of Triston’s arm when the last violin sighs. My palm is on his chest—steady, defiant, warm—and the room does that awful collective inhale people do when a glass tips and doesn’t shatter. Whisper, static, a hundred small judgments knitting themselves into a blanket they plan to throw over us.
I don’t look away from him. I can’t. If I do, I’ll see faces I’ve curated seating charts for all month—donors I’ve charmed, wives I’ve arranged centerpieces for, rookies’ girlfriends I’ve steered toward bathrooms when the champagne hit too fast. They’re all watching now. So is every camera. And my father.
“Breathe,” Triston murmurs, voice low enough to hide behind. “Only thing you have to do.”
“I am,” I lie. My lungs feel like a clumsy accordion in a child’s hands.
His thumb strokes once at my waist, not a secret, not a claim, just a line my body can follow out of panic. “Then do it again.”
I drag air in. It tastes like pine and old money and something electric I’ll later learn was me.
Applause flickers and dies. A donor’s wife says “Well,” like she just opened a closet on a mess she suspected was there. Someone drops a fork; it skitters and the sound rings harder than it should. The band doesn’t stop—God bless professionals—but they switch to something upbeat like they’re throwing us a lifeline and a distraction both.
“Triston.” My voice is threadbare. “My dad.”
“I know,” he says. He does not turn his head to find Wayne; he does not steel himself like a man about to take a hit. He stays with me. “He can get to us if he wants to, and we’ll let him. But he won’t make me move you.”
“Won’t or can’t?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “I won’t let him confuse control with love in a room you built.”
I almost laugh because it’s so exactly right, the sentence I didn’t know I needed to stand on. The room I built. These garlands, those lights, the way the check-in table doesn’t bottleneck near the tree because I changed the angle by three degrees. Mine. For once, I don’t give the space away.
A server slips by with a tray and a face that says she has seen worse marriages and better tips. I feel a rush of pity—for her feet, for her tray, for the way we all become furniture when someone else’s drama devours oxygen. I want to say I’m sorry. I don’t. I stay inside the circle of his arm and think about how apologies used to be my favorite way to avoid being chosen.
“Head up,” he says, and if he’d said it like a coach I would have bristled. He says it like a partner, and my chin obeys.
I look across the room.
Dad is already moving.
Hedoesn’t rush. He won’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him barrel through guests. He slides, that terrifying calm that made other coaches throw clipboards because they could never hold their tempers like he held his. People peel away from his path without knowing they are; they’ve learned the shape of him the way you learn the shape of a storm—pressurized air, a smell that says stay inside.
