“How come? Wasn’t it good? Especially when I?—”
“Oliver.” My tone slices clean through his comments. “One more word, and I’ll wring your neck.”
His laugh is low as amusement vibrates through the narrow space. “If I have my way, you’ll be using those same hands to hold on tight later.”
A frustrated sigh slips out as I tip my head back against the seat. “Sometimes I really hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” He smirks. “And you definitely didn’t hate me when you were screaming my name.”
Before I can reply, the car slows to a stop along the curb. The instant the door opens, noise erupts around me. There are camera flashes and shouting as a swarm of reporters close in on us.
“Oliver! Oliver! Over here!”
“Big O, are you dating the Railers’ PR manager?”
“Oliver, are you confirming a relationship?”
The glare blinds me as voices blend into one deafening rush. Oliver’s arm slips around my waist, carefully steering me through the crowd.
“Smile.” His lips brush against my ear. The warmth of his breath across my skin sends a tremor through me.
I force a smile that feels brittle.
This is exactly how careers implode. One headline, one photo, and I’m the story instead of the one controlling it.
The throng erupts again when a stretch limo pulls up. Zane and Gigi step into the spotlight, flashbulbs detonating like fireworks.
“Looks like the circus has officially arrived,” Oliver mutters.
Good.
Let Zane enjoy it. He’s always been a whore for attention.
As soon as we step off the red carpet, I slip from Oliver’s hold, needing to put distance between us.
Control the narrative; don’t let it control you.
Inside the hotel, the noise fades to a dull roar, but the jittery rush inside me refuses to calm. The night has barely begun, and already, it feels like irreparable damage has been done.
10
Oliver
Backstage is a goddamn zoo.
There are too many tuxes.
And way too many egos jockeying for position.
The room reeks of starch, sweat, and cologne. It’s thick enough to choke on. Handlers flit around like frantic babysitters, straightening ties, checking cuff links, whispering last-minute orders about posture and fake smiles. Bright stage lights bleed through the curtain, turning the space into a sweltering cage.
The sound system vibrates, the crowd’s laughter filtering through the seams. Every cheer scrapes across my already tightly stretched nerves. Out there, they applaud for the version of us they see on the jumbotron.
I’ve never felt more like a show pony.
I’d rather be anywhere else than standing here like a slab of meat with a price tag, waiting for someone to point and clap and toss money at me. The whole setup—the preening, the crowd’s reaction, the auctioneering—grinds at something in me that’s not built for performance.
I do it because I have to.
