I look around for him, but see no sign of Tristan. Did he leave? Sneak out in the middle of the chaos?
God, I’m an idiot. Of course, he wasn’t here for me. I’m a means to an end for him. Nothing more.
“Your lipstick’s smudged,” Brent points out. “Lucky for you, I’m not a jealous guy.”
Disgust boils over in my belly, and I seriously might puke. “I need to go.” I walk over to the bar and signal to the bartender, who reaches down and hands me my silver clutch bag. I slip him a hundred-dollar bill and open my purse, unlock my phone, and check.
News updates flood my feed, pictures of the total destruction of an empty building as firefightersrace to douse the flames. Smoke. Videos from local storefronts depict a fireball explosion.
Shock reverberates through me, threatening to split me apart at the thin seams until I glance up. Tristan stands across the room as it empties out, his eyes fixated on me and Brent, who still lingers beside me.
“Your mom said you had something to discuss with me tonight?” Brent’s voice layers with fake concern as he rests a hand on my shoulder, his fingers scraping across my collarbone. He glances over at Tristan, and I can see the imaginary dick measuring going on between them. “I’m sure you’re in shock. We’ll chat next week.” He leans in and plants a kiss on my cheek where only a few minutes ago, Tristan’s lips were.
I’m going home and scrubbing every inch of my skin on my body
Without another word, he blends into the crowd that makes its way out of the ballroom.
Tristan strides over to me and takes my arm. “Come with me.”
“Tristan,” his name slips from my lips before I can stop myself. “Tell me it isn’t true.”
He says nothing as he leads me towards the back of the group to exit the ballroom, but I don’t follow him.
“Tristan,” I hiss. “What did you do?”
CHAPTER TWENTY
TRISTAN
I was obsessedwith the Scholastic Book Fair as a kid. Like most boys my age, I bought a sports car poster in fourth or fifth grade. A Porsche. It was Dad’s favorite car brand, and his love for the sleek design and incredible engineering is coded into my DNA. I taped the poster over my bed, and that shiny image stayed there for a couple of years until it was replaced with a random bikini-model poster I found at Spencer’s.
Getting to drive a Porsche should be exciting—a tick off the bucket list I never bothered to finalize. But Daphne’s gone silent in the passenger seat, and her icy demeanor is sucking the joy out of this moment.
I have a gorgeous woman in the passenger seat of a stolen sports car… and it sucks.
“I’m sorry,” I say for the sixth time tonight.
“You killedhow manyCommittee members?” she asks, already knowing the answer.
“Only seven,” I remind her. “I left a dozen alive to send a message.”
“I can count,” she snaps. “I’m not an idiot. I feel like one, though.”
“Why? You’re one of the smartest people I know. And that’s including my brainiac brother.”
“Let me clarify,” she huffs. “Youmade me feel like an idiot.”
Huh?
“I just complimented you on how you’renotan idiot.”
“Not the compliment.” The irritation in her voice ramps up.
Maybe I should chop off my footSaw-style and cram it into my mouth. I’m already doing a great job at fucking this night up.
“You didn’t tell me.” Her voice deflates, overloaded with sadness I didn’t expect. “You killed seven people, and you couldn’t be bothered to give me a heads up?”
“I thought it would be a nice surprise.”
