The venue is the Metropolitan Museum. We pull up to red-carpeted steps, camera flashes already going off for the early arrivals. This isn't the kind of event that makes tabloids, but there's a society photographer, and the charity's social media team is documenting everything.
Grant helps me out of the car, his hand firm on mine.
We walk up the steps together, and I feel the attention shift our way. I can hear the hushed whispers that immediately start—Grant Cross and his young girlfriend, the one who's pregnant.
I hold my head high.
Inside, the Great Hall has been transformed. Soaring ceilings, dramatic lighting, round tables dressed in white linen and gold accents. A string quartet plays near the entrance. Waiters circulate with champagne and hors d'oeuvres.
It's beautiful and intimidating at the same time. Exactly the kind of event I never thought I’d want to go to because I wouldn't feel like I belonged.
Tonight, I belong exactly as much as anyone else here.
Grant introduces me to lots of people—board members, donors, colleagues from his various business ventures. I smile, shake hands, and make small talk. Several people congratulate me on the pregnancy.
We're at our table—Grant, me, and several of his business associates and their spouses—when I see her.
Victoria.
She's across the room, elegant in a black gown that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. Her blonde hair is swept up in a sleek chignon, enormous diamond earrings glittering at her ears. She's talking to a cluster of women, her smile bright and social.
But her eyes find mine across the crowd, and she immediately stops smiling.
"She's here," I murmur to Grant.
He follows my gaze, his jaw tightening. "I figured she would be. She's on the host committee."
Of course she is. Victoria's social power is built on exactly these kinds of events—charity boards, gala committees, the endless networking that keeps Manhattan's elite interconnected.
"It's fine," I say, even though I can feel my heart rate elevating. "We knew we'd run into her eventually."
Grant's hand finds mine under the table. "If she approaches you, if she says anything?—"
"I can handle it." I squeeze his fingers. "I'm not scared of her anymore."
It's mostly true. Victoria's power to hurt me is gone. She already destroyed my investment with Vance, and it doesn't matter because I have Athena Capital now. She can whisper all she wants about our “inappropriate” relationship—I know the truth. Grant knows the truth. That's what matters.
Dinner is served. I pick at my salmon, too aware of Victoria's presence across the room. She doesn't approach, but I catch her watching us several times.
The speeches start after the chocolate mousse dessert. The organization's director talks about the programs they fund, the kids they've helped, the impact of everyone's generosity. Grant is called up to the stage to accept some kind of leadership award, and I watch him accept it with gracious humility, his brief speech focused entirely on the kids the organization serves rather than his own contribution.
When he returns to the table, he leans down to whisper in my ear. "Samantha just texted. She's here."
I straighten. "What?"
"She came with friends, apparently. Some kind of teenage networking thing." His expression is carefully neutral, but I can see the hope underneath. "She wants to say hi."
Before I can respond, Samantha appears at our table.
She's in a sky blue sheath dress, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. She looks nervous but when she meets my eyes, she smiles.
"Hi," she says.
"Hi." I stand, suddenly uncertain. We ended things on good terms at my apartment, but this is different. This is public. "You look beautiful. I love that dress."
"Thanks. So do you." Her eyes drop to my bump, then back up. "Congratulations, by the way. On the funding. I saw it on your Instagram."
The fact that she follows my Instagram makes something warm bloom in my chest. "Thanks. It's—it's still surreal."
