What if there was a mistake? What if my name wasn’t on the list? What if I had to do the humiliating walk of shame home, a nobody who dared to believe she could make it in this world?
My feet itched to turn back. A quiet, self-preserving part of me whispered that this wasn’t my scene—that I was out of my depth, playing pretend in a space that didn’t belong to me. I imagined retreating to my apartment, curling up with a pint of ice cream, numbing the sting of failure with reruns of trashy reality shows.
But then I saw him.
Kyle.
The oak tree beside me provided just enough shadow to keep me hidden, but I still felt like a total coward, lurking there as I tracked his every move.
Kyle strolled past the bouncer without so much as a pause, slipping into the hotel like he owned the place.
Was I really going to stand in the shadows and lethim—of all people—make me feel small?
Absolutely not.
Straightening my posture, I took a deep breath and marched toward the entrance, willing my face into one of calm confidence.
The doorman with the clipboard gave me a polite but expectant look. “Name?”
“Macey Monroe,” I said, steady and sure.
He ran a finger down the list, then handed me a badge. “You’re all set. Enjoy your evening, Ms. Monroe.”
That was it?
I exhaled, the tension uncoiling from my shoulders as I stepped through the grand double doors. Inside, the air hummed with soft jazz and the clinking of champagne glasses. Guests in designer outfits moved through the lobby, their conversations a blur of laughter and murmured business deals.
I had been bracing for rejection, for some kind of confirmation that I didn’t belong here. But it hadn’t come.
Because I did belong.
With a small, triumphant smile, I adjusted the strap of my bag, squared my shoulders, and stepped fully into the golden glow of the hotel.
I took a slow breath, letting my eyes sweep over the space. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the skyline, the city lights twinkling like scattered diamonds. A sprawling floral arrangement sat in the center of the lobby, a statement piece in soft blush and ivory, no doubt strategically placed for photo ops. Servers in crisp white jackets glided through the crowd, balancing trays of bubbling champagne and delicate hors d’oeuvres.
I moved carefully, weaving through clusters of well-dressed guests. Every step felt like a tiny act of rebellion, a silent declaration that I belonged here just as much as the PR executives, journalists, and influencers who seemed to navigate the room with effortless ease.
It felt like I was living in my future.
And then I crashed into a man’s side.
Oh, no. My body immediately recognized the forearm. A little pathetic that I could recognize someone from their forearm alone, but well. This was where I was in life.
“Macey?” Noah’s voice was laced with confusion as his gaze locked onto me.
I instinctively took a step back, the softdingof the elevator doors shutting behind me like a dramatic exclamation point to my predicament. “What are you doing here?”
He blinked, his expression a mix of curiosity and amusement. “I was hoping to see you here, actually.”
“Really?” I hesitated, already feeling the heat rise to my face.
Noah shoved his hands into the pockets of his suit pants, his shoulders shifting like he wasn’t entirely sure how to stand. “Yeah. I’ve really enjoyed your last few blog posts, and I saw you share something about tonight, so I put two and two together.”
Hearing that sent a rush of emotions crashing into me—excitement, trepidation, the ache of missing him.
And then there was the simple fact that he lookedgood.
The kind of good that made my stomach tighten unfairly, like my body had decided to betray me entirely.
