"I am perfectly behaved," I say.
Mason snorts. "That’s a scientific lie."
Annabelle pulls out her chair and sits with perfect posture, like she is hosting a board meeting instead of a fundraiser with an open bar. I take the seat next to her, sprawling in a way that probably makes her eyes twitch.
"You remember the rules," she murmurs without looking at me. "No swearing at reporters. No arguing with the MC. No spontaneous speeches. One whiskey, maximum."
"You wound me," I say. "I am a delight at events."
"You’re a liability," she replies.
The lights dim slightly as the first act walks onstage. He sits on a stool, guitar in hand, and launches into a song about losing his truck, his dog, and his girlfriend, in that order.
Dex wipes an invisible tear from his cheek. "Art."
Gregory elbows him. "You don’t even listen to country music."
"I do now," Dex says. "I am supporting the cause."
Annabelle doesn’t laugh, but I catch the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth. She looks straight ahead, hands folded around her glass of sparkling water. Her shoulders are tight. Too tight.
I lean back and scan the room. People are swaying. Nodding. Pretending this is the greatest song they have ever heard because there are cameras and social media managers present.
The first set ends. Dinner is served, and the atmosphere is bustling with conversation while the next artist sets up.
About twenty minutes later, another male country singer is introduced.
"This one," he says as he adjusts the mic, "is for anyone who has ever had their heart ripped out in public."
Annabelle goes still.
The room quiets.
He starts playing. The melody is slow and clean. The lyrics hit hard.
Found you backstage, kissing someone else,he sings.I was standing in the wings with your name on my mouth.
Next to me, Annabelle drops her fork and her fingers tighten around her glass. Her throat works like she is forcing something down. She keeps her gaze locked on the stage, but her eyes are not really there anymore.
My chest tightens.
I shouldn’t care. I am here to sit, look pretty, and not destroy the franchise’s reputation for a couple of hours. That is it. That is the assignment.
But watching her pretend that lyric is not slicing her open makes my jaw clench.
She inhales sharply. Sets her glass down. Stands.
"Excuse me," she says to no one in particular.
She walks toward the rear doors, back straight, chin high.
I push my chair back, ready to follow.
A hand lands on my arm.
Harper.
"Be kind to her," she says quietly.
