I've made a grave mistake.
Well—another grave mistake.
CHAPTER 36
DARIAN
And so thenext day I find myself standing amidst the towering redwoods near the Retreat, staring fixedly ahead.
Raffi stands a few feet away, apparently having been called over, too. We said nothing to each other on our arrivals, merely nodded.
But I hate this distance between Raffi and me. It's easier to ignore when we can just avoid each other, like we have for the last few weeks. Thankfully, before things become too uncomfortable, I catch sight of Julian strolling toward us as though he has all the time in the world.
"You two must have been perfectly on time," he says. "Sorry I'm a little late. But how exciting to think that Redwood's dynamic duo will be working on my party."
I fidget uncomfortably, trying to think if there's any way to extricate myself from working in such close proximity with Raffi. The thought of spending long hours with him, like we did for the parley—well, it makes my stomach drop and my palms sweat.
"Actually, Mr. Castellani, I'm not sure my skills are best suited to—" I begin, but Julian cuts me off with a dismissive wave of his hand.
"Nonsense, Darian. You know you're the only one I trust to handle the guest list and all the delicate social nuances. And Raffi's security expertise is essential for an event of this caliber. Now, let me tell you both what I have in mind…"
Raffi remains silent, leaning against a tree trunk, arms crossed over his broad chest. I'm afraid to look at him, afraid of what I might see in his face. Longing? Resentment?
Indifference?
And as Julian launches into an enthusiastic discussion of what he insists on calling his "vision," Raffi continues to stay quiet. I could swear I feel his eyes on me from time to time, but when I get up the courage to glance his way, he's looking at Julian, or the redwoods, or the ground.
I wonder what he's thinking.
The days pass in a whirlwind as Raffi and I prepare for Julian and Leo's housewarming party. There are guest lists to finalize, caterers to hire, decor to arrange, and a hundred other details to see to. And every detail must be checked and approved by Raffi for security measures. It means we work side by side, coordinating with staff and vendors, and each day I dread it more and more, the cool professional tone in his voice, the way he very carefully keeps a physical distance when we pore over the seating chart, the lack of jokes, smiles, teasing.
And all the time we discuss the party preparations, other conversations lurk just beneath the surface, like dangerous debris waiting to catch me, pull me under.
When it's just the two of us—which is often—I have to remind myself to focus on the task in front of me and not the man beside me.
Remind myself that I betrayed not only the Family, but Raffi himself.
I find myself drinking in the sight of him when he's not looking, taking in the strong lines of his profile, the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders. I'm haunted by memories of his touch, his kiss. And when our hands brush—just once—while reviewing plans over a too-small table, or our shoulders press together when we go into a storage room, the familiar ache inside me grows larger and larger.
But I know it's futile. I ruined everything with my lies and my fears, and there's no going back. Raffi deserves someone better, someone unafraid to love him the way he deserves. It's a bittersweet torture, this illusion of closeness.
Because it's only temporary, a fleeting reminder of what could have been if I hadn't been such a coward.
Today we've been struggling with the seating chart again, holed up in the security room at Redwood Manor together as Raffi keeps an eye on his other duties. He's accepted the promotion to work at the Retreat, but he's not due to transfer officially until closer to the party. We're still sorting through the tangled web ofrivalries and alliances among the guests—the mob has nothing on Hollywood, which seems to come as a surprise to Raffi—when the evening draws in, and the night guard have checked in for work. Raffi sends them away to do rounds and I try to focus again on the list, eyes bleary from hours of work and the strain of ignoring an attraction that threatens to overwhelm me.
The guest list has been a particular bone of contention between us. Raffi, ever the security-minded professional, wants to limit invitations to those with the most impeccable backgrounds and reputations. But I've argued for a more inclusive approach, knowing that snubbing certain industry figures could cause more trouble than it's worth.
"We can't just blacklist everyone with a hint of scandal," I insist, my frustration mounting as Raffi stubbornly digs in his heels. "This is Hollywood, for God's sake. If we start playing moral arbiter, we'll end up with a guest list of three people and a potted plant."
Raffi scowls, his brows drawn together in a fierce line. "I don't care if they're screwing around; I care if they're a threat to the Family. Safety is my top priority, for Julian and Leo, for the guests, for you…" He trails off, something raw and vulnerable flickering in his eyes before he shutters it away.
My heart stutters in my chest at the unspoken implication. Even after everything, he still cares about my wellbeing. Still wants to protect me, even if he can no longer love me.
"Can't you just stop being so damn stubborn?" he asks.
I don't think he's talking about the guest list.
My anger drains away as quickly as flared. "We both have our jobs to do," I say in the end. "Let's just find a way to compromise."
