I pretend I'm not falling apart inside.
And then I see Bryce.
He's across the room, already drunk by the look of him, his face flushed and his movements too loud. When he spots me, his expression turns ugly, and my stomach clenches with dread.
Oh God. Not here. Not now.
He starts toward me, and I consider leaving. But no—I won't run from this pathetic man. I won't give him the satisfaction.
"Eve!" His voice carries across the polite conversations. People turn to look, and I feel the familiar burn of humiliation creeping up my neck. "Eve Sinclair, fashion's biggest fraud!"
I stand very still, my champagne glass steady in my hand, even though I'm shaking inside. Security is already moving toward him, but he's still talking, still making a scene.
"You think you're so special, don't you? But you're nothing. Nothing! And soon everyone will know it."
Two security guards take his arms, and he struggles briefly before allowing himself to be escorted out. The crowd returns to their conversations, the disruption already forgotten by them.
But not by me. Never by me.
I feel the familiar crawl of disgust on my skin, mixed with shame and fury and the horrible, helpless feeling of being publicly humiliated. Bryce's desperation is pathetic, but it's also dangerous. He's unraveling, and I'm his fixation.
And I'm so tired of being everyone's target.
I turn away, needing air, needing to escape before I break down in front of all these people, and that's when I feel it—the weight of someone's gaze, heavy and intent.
Different from the crowd's curious stares. This feels... warmer. Protective, almost.
I scan the room and find him.
A man stands near the west wall, partially in shadow. He's tall, powerfully built, dark-haired, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit that fits him like it was made for his body alone.
And he's staring at me with an intensity that makes my breath catch, that makes everything else—Bryce, the humiliation, the crumbling business—fade into nothing.
Not casual interest, not polite attention. This is focused, absolute, consuming.
Our eyes lock across the crowded room, and something electric passes between us. Recognition—or is it? My mind flashes to the masked ball last week, to the stranger who held me on the dance floor and whispered promises in my ear. Could it be...?
No. I never saw that man's face. But the height is right. The build. And those eyes—God, those dark green eyes that seem to see straight through me. That look at me like I'm not a fraud or a failure or a woman whose life is falling apart.
That look at me like I'm precious.
Heat floods my body as memories of that dance crash over me. The way his hand felt on my lower back. His breath against my ear. The hardness of his body pressed against mine. The way my body responded to him like it recognized something my mind couldn't grasp.
The way he made me feel safe. Protected. Seen.
Is it him?
He doesn't smile. Doesn't look away. Just watches me with those dark, unreadable eyes, and I feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with my dress. Stripped bare. Known.
And somehow, it doesn't feel like a violation. It feels like... relief.
My pulse races. My skin flushes hot. Between my thighs, I feel a throb of want that makes my breath catch, that makes me forget for just a moment that my world is crumbling.
He takes a step toward me, and my heart pounds so hard I'm certain everyone can hear it. Another step. The crowd seems to part for him, or maybe I'm just so focused on him that I don't see anyone else.
Please. Please be him. Please be real.
Someone speaks to me—a donor, asking about my upcoming show—and I force myself to break eye contact, to respond politely even though I want to scream at them to go away. My voice sounds strange to my own ears, breathless and distracted.
