“Sorry,” I apologize, feeling like an idiot. “I just—I was hoping…” I try again, my voice growing increasingly shaky. “We need to—” I swallow again, but the words just get stuck in my throat, and I exhale in defeat.
“We need to talk, I know.” His phone buzzes again, and he glances down at it quickly. “I can’t—not right now—but I promise we’ll talk later. Okay?”
I nod, relief flooding through me at the thought of having a little more time.
“Okay.”
I sip my champagne, my eyes scanning the room for probably the hundredth time.
He’s late.
I hear my name and sigh, schooling my face and straightening my shoulders back before walking over with a smile to greet yet another patron.
It’s been the same copy and paste interaction over the last hour. I thank them for coming, and for their generous donation; I answer questions about myself and ballet, and comment on how well showcase rehearsals have been going, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t help my gaze from drifting over the room.
He said he’d be here.
The Conservatory really spared no expense for the winter gala. The venue reminds me of something out of a fairy tale; crystal chandeliers hang from the high arched ceilings overhead, ornately carved columns line the room, while a string quartet plays all the classics in the corner.
Everyone is dressed to the nines. The room drips of old money and generational wealth. The Delacroix Winter Gala is not an event to be missed by the Boston elite.
Koen really came in clutch with the dress he bought me. I found it hanging in the bathroom this morning with the rest of my things.
Soft, midnight blue silk—its color appearing to change depending on the lighting—could almost be described as black, as it hugs the curves of my body and pools around my feet. Thin silk straps criss-cross across my back, leaving it mostly exposed, which gives me a little anxiety over the whip marks, though they have healed over into thin white scars. The slit cut high up my left leg is a not-so-subtle reminder of exactly who picked the dress out.
The glittery silver heels I found in the bottom of the bag pair well with it, and so had the silver Celtic knot necklace Koen had given me last week, so I left it on, not that I really have anything to swap it out with. I’d pawned any jewelry worth a cent years ago.
After spending nearly an hour greeting patrons in the hallway, the dancers are dismissed to go enjoy the party with everyone else.
I know Koen told me he had bought a table, but nothing, and I meannothing, could have prepared me for what I see when I reach our assigned table thirteen.
“Mystery girl!”
I take a deep breath and step up to the table. In a shockingly gentlemanly display, Liam stands, pulling out the chair next to him before ushering me into it.
“Err—thank you,” I say, remembering my manners once seated, finding myself staring across the table at Koen’s other brother, Aidan, and thegirlhe has at his side.She’s smiling at me.
“Mystery Girl, you remember Aidan.” I give him a nod of acknowledgement. “And I don’t think you’ve met little Kostalova.”
Aidan sits up in his seat, elbowing Liam hard in the ribs.
“Ow,fuckAce,” Liam curses, lowering his voice after drawing attention from the table next to us. “Bloody hell, sorry. It’s going to take some getting used to, okay?”
Aidan just glowers at him, and I stare wide-eyed at the two of them.
Recovering, Liam clears his throat and puts a smile back on his face. “Sorry, that’s Rory.” He points at the girl again, who’s desperately trying not to laugh. “AKA the new Mrs.O’Rourke.”
My eyes widen further when I realize thatthisis Rory. I take her in;she’s pretty, likereallypretty. Her honey-blonde hair is in an elegant bun at the nape of her neck, and she’s wearing a gorgeous pale silvery blue dress that nearly matches her eyes; her cheeks are round and full of color, and she looks…happy.
She doesn’t look like she’s spent weeks chained up in the Irish Devil’s basement.What Filip and Dominick from thePolish mafia had suggested Aidan had been doing to her… I shiver just thinking about it.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?” Rory says sweetly while throwing a pointed look at Liam, who throws up his hands in defeat while tossing his napkin on the table.
“Briar,” I say, hiding a laugh.
“Nice to meet you, Briar.”
“You know you two have a lot in common?” Liam says, gesturing between Rory and me.
