“You’re right,” I say finally. “It’s not the life I want.”
Ryan’s expression brightens.
“But they are,” I finish. “And I’d rather have them in the shadows than you in the light.”
The brightness dims. “Parker?—”
“I appreciate the honesty about lying to Charles,” I interrupt. “Genuinely. I didn’t expect that from you. But there’s no future here, Ryan. Not the kind you want. I’m sorry if that’s disappointing, but it’s the truth.”
He sits back, studying me with an expression I can’t quite read. “You’re making a mistake.”
“Maybe.” I look out the window as the museum comes into view, all lit up against the night sky, photographers already gathering on the red carpet. “But it’s my mistake to make.”
Ryan doesn’t respond, and we spend the rest of the short drive in silence.
The museum’s grand entrance is a masterpiece of architecture—wide stone steps leading up to massive columns, warm lightspilling from the ornate doorway, and a red carpet that stretches from the curb to the threshold like a river of blood.
Photographers line both sides of the carpet, cameras ready, shouting names and instructions. I can see other guests arriving—men in tuxedos, women in gowns that probably cost more than most people’s cars, everyone playing their part in this elaborate performance of respectability.
Our car pulls up behind the others. Through the window, I can see Charles and Sienna on the steps, posing for photos with practiced ease. Evelyn and Aria are just ahead of us, Aria’s hand resting on her flat stomach in a gesture that’s probably meant to be protective but reads as performative.
“Ready?” Ryan asks, and there’s something in his tone that says he’s not quite ready to give up yet.
“As I’ll ever be.”
Marcus opens the door. Ryan steps out first, then offers me his hand. I take it because refusing would cause a scene, and I let him help me out of the car.
Cameras flash immediately. Photographers call out our names.
“Mr. Matthews! Over here!”
“Parker! Parker Carter! Look this way!”
“Mr. Matthews, who’s your date tonight?”
Ryan’s hand moves to the small of my back—possessive, proprietary, exactly the kind of touch that photographs well. I resist the urge to step away, keeping my expression pleasant and neutral as we climb the steps.
The coat hides everything. The storm-grey silk, the steel-blue accents, the amber beads that catch firelight. All of it concealed beneath black cashmere that could be hiding anything.
We reach the entrance. An attendant materializes—young, professional, eager to help.
“May I take your coat, miss?”
“Not yet,” I say smoothly. “I’ll check it inside.”
Ryan’s hand is still on my back as we move through the doorway, into the museum’s grand entrance hall. It’s breathtaking—marble floors, soaring ceilings, art on every wall. And at the far end, a sweeping staircase that curves down to the main gallery floor where the gala is actually being held.
I can hear music from below. Conversation. The clink of champagne glasses and polite laughter.
And standing near one of the columns at the top of the staircase, positioned perfectly to see everyone who arrives?—
Jace. Cal. Silas.
All three in black tuxedos that fit like sin, looking dangerous and elegant and absolutely lethal. Jace’s steel-blue eyes are scanning the crowd with tactical precision. Cal’s leaning against the column with practiced casualness, but his amber gaze is sharp and focused. Silas stands slightly apart, his storm-grey eyes dark and assessing, violence riding his shoulders like always.
They haven’t seen me yet. Haven’t looked this direction.
“Let me help you with that,” Ryan says, reaching for the coat.
