God, this night is dragging.
The chandeliers above glitter like interrogation lights, the air thick with expensive perfume and false laughter. Every conversation blurs into the same meaningless hum of power and vanity. I didn’t want to come, but Fran had thrown a fit.
So here I am. Dressed in a tux that fits too well, wearing a mask I don’t have the energy to maintain.
Fran, of course, is in her element. She’s been making her rounds for the past hour air-kissing friends, laughing too loud, and making sure every camera in the room catches the glint of the engagement ring on her finger.
The ring I gave her.
The one I haven’t looked at once tonight without feeling something ugly crawl up my throat.
She finally glides back to our table, cheeks flushed from champagne and attention.
“Darling,” she coos, her hand settling on my arm. “You should say hello to the mayor.”
I arch a brow. “Why would I do that?”
She blinks, then laughs lightly, as if I’ve told a charming joke. “You’re so silly. No wonder you need me. I’ll make all the connections we need.”
Her words scrape against my patience.We.She says it like she’s already part of my legacy.
I make the mistake of glancing at my phone again, and she catches it immediately.
“You’ve been preoccupied all night,” she says, swirling her champagne. “Is it work?”
Her tone is casual, but her gaze is sharp. Fran never asks a question she doesn’t already think she knows the answer to.
“Yes,” I lie smoothly. “Just business. Things that would only bore you.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Do you mind if I make a call?” I ask, already half-standing.
“Only if you promise to take me for a spin around the room after,” she says, her fingers brushing my jaw. “People are starting to think you don’t like me.”
I catch her hand and lift it to my lips, brushing a kiss across her knuckles. “Of course.”
Then I leave before she can ask another question.
As I move through the crowded ballroom, people step aside. The air feels lighter the farther I get from her perfume.
I grab a glass of champagne from a passing tray and down it in one swallow. The bubbles burn like acid.
Out in the corridor, the noise of the gala dulls to a distant hum. I pull out my phone again.
Still nothing.
I open her message thread anyway, my thumb hovering over the last thing she sent.
Elizabeth
Merry Christmas.
That was hours ago.
I should delete it. I should go back inside, to Fran, to the life that keeps the world in balance.
But instead, I find myself typing before I can stop.
