“It was,” she admits. “You’re not freezing up. You’re not second-guessing every word. That’s half the battle.”
“I am absolutely second-guessing every word. I’m just doing it silently.”
She grins. “Progress.”
Across the room, James leans against the wall near the exit, camera resting at his side. He’s not eating. He’s not talking. He’s just… there. Watching the flow of people, tracking movement like it’s second nature.
I catch myself wondering what he sees through that lens of his. Not the polished version meant for headlines, but the micro-expressions, the tension in shoulders, the flicker of impatience that never quite reaches the mouth. He looks like someone who notices everything and reacts to almost nothing.
Addison follows my gaze and smirks. “You’re staring.”
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are,” she murmurs. “You look like you’re trying to solve a math problem using vibes.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Can we not?”
“Oh, we absolutely can,” she giggles cheerfully. “It’s the most interesting thing about today so far.”
I sigh. “Please don’t make this weird.”
She leans closer. “Too late. It’s already weird. You slept with him, didn’t get his real name, and now you’re working a high-stakes international event together like nothing happened. That’s not normal.”
“Neither is most of your life,” I counter.
She laughs. “Fair.”
The afternoon sessions start again shortly after. I slide back into place, headset on, focus narrowing as the room fills and voices rise. This block is heavier—more pointed questions, less ceremonial language. I feel the strain in my temples as I work to keep pace.
Hours pass like this, time compressing into something dense and exhausting. When the final break is called late in the afternoon, my shoulders ache and my throat is raw, but there’s a strange sense of accomplishment curling in my chest.
We didn’t mess this up. More like I didn’t mess this up, and for that I am proud of myself.
As people begin to file out, conversations shifting toward evening plans, Addison turns to me with a grimace. “So. The gala?”
I saw mention of a gala in the itinerary. Something meant to ease the tension and allow people to mingle and exchange fake laughs. I didn’t think Addison would want to drag me to this too.
My stomach drops. “Do we have to?”
She nods. “Yes, visibility matters, and I need you.”
I groan softly. “I am not emotionally prepared for formalwear in a place where I’m already overstimulated.”
She pats my arm. “You’ll survive. Besides, it’s not like you’ll be alone.”
Her eyes flick, just briefly, toward James. I open my mouth to protest, then close it again. He catches my eye across the room, expression unreadable as ever. There’s no invitation there. No expectation. Just quiet presence.
Maybe I can convince him to dance with me later on.
I draw a steadying breath. “Fine. But if I trip in front of a diplomat, I’m blaming you.”
She grins. “Deal.
8
RYDER
I already hate the gala before I even button my shirt. Such events are nothing but crowds, bright lights, and noise dressed up as civility. Forced smiles and bodies packed too close together, everyone pretending this is something other than what it is—posturing layered over tension and champagne poured over old blood. I’ve never had patience for it. Give me dirt, silence, clear lines of sight, and places where men are honest about what they want.
