"No, I've been—" I gestured vaguely at the clipboard, at the party, at the controlled chaos that was my natural habitat. "Tell him I'm by the entrance if you find him."
Roger's smile widened just a fraction. "Will do, boss."
He disappeared into the crowd, and I hoped he liked the gift I’d bought for him at Bergdorf’s. A Dior shirt that cost a fortune, but he deserved it. Roger had been my assistant for eight months, and he was good at his job—great, even. He anticipated my needs, managed my calendar with military precision, and never complained when I sent him seventeen emails before 8 AM.
I glanced down at my clipboard and saw that the caterers needed to start circulating the hors d'oeuvres in ten minutes. The photographer wanted a group shot with Savannah and her agent in fifteen. The BookTok influencers needed to be herded toward the branded backdrop for their promotional videos in—
"Excuse me, are you Farley Davenport?"
I looked up to find a woman in her sixties with steel-gray hair and a gaze that could strip paint. "Yes?"
"Patricia Caldwell, Publishers Weekly. I was hoping to get a quote about Savannah's success and your editorial process."
Shit. I hadn't prepared for interviews. That wasn't on my list.
"Of course," I said smoothly, sliding into my professional persona like a well-worn coat. "Savannah is a phenomenal talent, and it's been an honor to work with her. Her ability to craft emotionally resonant stories with commercial appeal is—"
I continued on autopilot, giving the same quotes I'd given a dozen times before, while my mind wandered to the cabin. To Ollie. To the future I was trying to build for us.
Twenty minutes later, I'd talked to three journalists, two literary agents trying to poach my authors, and one romance novelist who'd had too much champagne and kept asking if I was single. I was checking my list again—champagne refills, photographer grouping, Savannah's reading in thirty minutes—when I realized I hadn't seen Ollie in over an hour.
I made my way through the crowd, smiling and nodding at familiar faces, until I reached the coat closet near the back of the loft. The door was slightly ajar, and I heard a groan. Was somebody hurt?
My hand was on the door handle before my brain could stop me.
I opened it.
And found Ollie with his tongue down Roger's throat.
Time did something strange. Stretched and compressed simultaneously. I saw everything with perfect clarity: Ollie's hand tangled in Roger's highlighted hair. Roger's fingers clutching the back of Ollie's jacket. The way they broke apart, eyes wide, guilty.
"Farley—" Ollie started.
I didn't wait to hear the rest.
I turned and walked—no, fled—through the party. Past Savannah, who called my name. Past the champagne fountain. Past the string quartet and the white roses and the perfectly arranged future I'd built in my mind.
Someone grabbed my arm. Savannah's agent, maybe. "Farley, are you—"
"I have to go."
"But the reading—"
"Cancel it. Reschedule it. I don't care."
I pushed through the door and into the December cold, my breath coming in sharp gasps that had nothing to do with the temperature. Behind me, I could hear voices, confusion, someone saying my name.
I kept walking.
Three blocks later, I realized I'd left my coat. Six blocks later, I realized I was crying. By the time I made it to my apartment in the West Village, I'd composed and deleted seventeen text messages to Ollie, each one more pathetic than the last.
I let myself into my apartment—a one-bedroom that cost more than it should and smelled like the lavender candles I burned obsessively—and immediately poured myself three fingers of bourbon. Then I poured another finger because apparently I was bad at measuring emotional devastation.
My phone buzzed. Fifty-three unread messages.
Savannah: OMG are you okay? What happened?
Savannah: Farley please call me
