My smile curves slow. “Then she’s out. And I’ll find a replacement who doesn’t mind playing supporting actress.”
He studies me like he’s deciding whether to call that bluff. Then he nods. “I’ll set it up.”
We walk back inside. The air smells like champagne and sugared fruit, and everyone’s laughing too loudly. Harper’s at the bar, stirring ice in a glass she hasn’t sipped. She looks up when she sees us and tries to smile. It wobbles.
I can’t trust her. I don’t like what that means for her future.
Blake peels off toward the stage where someone’s announcing auction winners. I slide in beside her.
“Fun night,” I say.
She nods. “Yeah.”
“Except for the part where our favorite stalker vanished into thin air.”
She swallows. “Weird, right?”
“Not weird,” I say. “Calculated.” I tilt my head. “Want to tell me about the text?”
Her eyes widen a fraction. “What text?”
“Oh, Harper.” I let my voice drip. “Don’t insult me.”
She glances around. “Not here.”
“Then where?”
She hesitates, then whispers, “Later. After everyone’s gone.”
I lean in, close enough that my breath brushes her ear. “Fine.”
When I pull back, she’s flushed. Uncomfortable. Exactly where I want her.
Across the room, Blake is watching. Not with suspicion—pleased. Like he’s watching a scene he wrote land exactly on cue.
The thing is, maybe he did.
And maybe I’m okay with that.
Because if The Watcher is gone, I need a new co-star in my survival story.
And Blake?
He knows all my angles.
Even the ones that cut.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Shae
The gala winds down the way small-town events always do—too much leftover shrimp cocktail, too many plastic champagne flutes abandoned on windowsills, too many hugs that last a beat longer than necessary.
I make my rounds with a glass of water because appearances matter. White dress, white teeth, white lies. Blake hovers nearby, camera back in place, catching candid moments that aren’t candid at all.
Harper keeps her distance. Not far enough to look suspicious, but far enough that I can feel the tension between us like a tripwire. She’s counting the minutes until “later.”
Good. Let her stew. Let it ferment into something sharp and confessional.
