The gala is in full swing.
At table seven, Silas and Daisy are putting on their own show.
Daisy is attempting to eat a shrimp with chopsticks (why are there chopsticks?) and has just launched one straight into Silas’s wineglass.
Silas stares at the floating shrimp with the expression of a man reevaluating his life choices, but he doesn’t snap at her.
If anything, he gently brushes a curl from her forehead so it won’t fall into the cocktail sauce.
He’s gone. Completely gone for her.
At table six, Tiffany is watching Sloane with a blend of jealousy and venom, whispering something to Brent.
He nods, but he’s really watching a golf livestream on his phone hidden beneath his napkin. Pathetic.
At table two, Chad and Kiki aren’t eating. They’re photographing the food with flash, rearranging plates to find the “good lighting.”
Chad is curling the champagne bottle like a dumbbell.
And then there’s table eight.
The one I was trying—desperately—to forget exists.
Joe.
He’s laughing loudly with Sarah, but his eyes keep flicking toward our table.
Toward Sloane’s hand resting on the tablecloth.
Toward the way I lean in toward her.
He looks at me like he’s challenging me.
I meet his stare—and then I slide my arm along the back of Sloane’s chair, curling it around her in a clear claim.
Go ahead and look, I think.
But tonight, she’s sleeping in my bed. And that smile she’s wearing? I’m the one who put it there. You idiot.
I’m not sure whether I’m thinking it to convince myself… or because I’m hoping he’ll somehow feel the punch of it telepathically.
The performance ends with a high note from Mrs. Lacey that rattles the glassware and a dramatic bow from Aunt Tina that nearly sends her tumbling off the stage.
The room erupts into applause.
Sloane claps enthusiastically. “They’re incredible, right?”
“Unforgettable,” I agree.
I turn toward her. The candlelight reflects in her eyes.
“You know something, Angel?”
“What?”
“I like this place. It’s chaos, but I like it.”
She smiles—and it’s soft, unguarded.
