Chase squeezes my shoulder. “Thank you,” he says, turning that megawatt smile on me. “I’m a lucky man.”
“I’m the lucky one,” I add dutifully, meeting his gaze with what I hope passes for adoration, and the woman coos appreciatively. The camera of the event photographer flashes from somewhere to my left; I don’t even bother to look. By now, maintaining this facade is muscle memory.
Plate after plate of delicate sandwiches and petit fours are offered and sampled. I nibble on a cucumber sandwich and taste nothing. Every so often, the photographer or a guest with a phone camera asks us to pose. Chase obliges enthusiastically, guiding me to angle toward the lens with a gentle hand on my waist. In each photo, I’m sure we look flawless—his charismatic grin, my subtle smile, our bodies tilted toward each other in unconscious harmony. I wonder if the camera can see how stiff my posture really is, or the way my fingers tremble briefly before I hide them in the folds of my skirt.
At one point, I feel Chase’s hand slide from my shoulder to the back of my neck, resting there possessively as he chats with a city councilman’s wife. The touch is light enough to seem affectionate, but his thumb strokes once at the nape of my neck and I force myself not to recoil. I focus on breathing slowly, evenly, counting the beats of my heart until the initial spike of panic subsides. One, two, three... By the time I reach ten, the urge to flinch has dulled to a manageable ache.
At last, we make our exit, and a valet brings around our car. Chase insisted on bringing me and Mother here himself—a fact I had no say in. Now, it’s Chase who ushers my mother and me into the sleek black town car. I slide in, and he follows, the door closing behind him with a solidthunk. As the driver pulls away from the hotel, I catch a glimpse of a few attendees still lingering by the entrance, waving. I lift my hand in a gracious goodbye through the tinted window.
Chase’s public smile drops the instant the world outside is obscured by dark glass.
The ride back to the penthouse is quiet. My mother chatters about how splendid the afternoon was, oblivious or uncaring of the suffocating silence between Chase and me. I keep my eyes on the passing scenery, shoulders pressed to the car door, putting as much distance between my body and his as possible. I focus on the city streets to distract myself from the promise he hissed in my ear.
A reward tonight.
The thought churns in my gut. I don’t know if I’m more afraid of what he has planned or of what will happen if I refuse to play along. So I simply fold my hands tighter in my lap, and wait for the drive to be over.
FIVE
MARA
Aweek in Florida, glued to my mom and Chase’s side, smiling for cameras at charity galas and yacht parties, and now I get a playdate. The doorbell chimes and instantly, my heart jumps. I smooth my palms over my skirt and push down the flutter of real excitement in my rib cage.
Zane gets to spend the afternoon at my penthouse with my mother and I. That was the reward Chase was talking about.
I exit my room, the guard in the hall straightening up as I appear. He doesn’t meet my eyes, but he falls into step a few paces behind as I head downstairs. The hum of conversation drifts from the foyer
I round the corner and see them—Mother standing with hands clasped in delighted hostess mode, and Zane shedding his camel coat. He’s facing away from me, but he’s dressed to impress, as usual—slim-fit plaid trousers and a mustard-yellow turtleneck under a tailored overcoat. The look is bold—a splash of sunshine color in this drab house—and so quintessentially Zane I could almost smile. His chestnut hair is artfully tousled, and I catch the flash of rings on his fingers as he gestures animatedly about something, making my mother laugh.
Then, he turns and spots me on the stairs. “Mara!” he squeals—actually squeals—and I can’t help it, the corners of my mouth tug up in the first genuine grin I’ve felt in weeks. Zane practically skips across the foyer, arms open wide.
I don’t care who’s watching; I meet him the rest of the way and fall into his embrace. He smells of bergamot and vanilla. A cozy, familiar scent that brings a rush of memories—sneaking into clubs with fake IDs, study sessions that devolved into gossip and wine, him holding my hair back that time I drank way too much at his cousin’s wedding. God, I’ve missed him. A lump catches in my throat.
Zane hugs me fiercely, like he’s trying to silently say a thousand things at once.Careful, I remind myself. Still, I let my head rest on his shoulder for one precious second.
“Hey, Mars,” he whispers near my ear, and I squeeze him just a bit tighter in reply.
We step back and I catch a better look at him as his warm brown eyes sweep over me, assessing. Out loud, he says, brightly, “Let me look at you! Ugh, Florida’s done wonders... you are glowing, babe. Aren’t you just a bronzed goddess now? Next time you’re going to be hanging out on yachts, you invite me. Got it?”
I snort softly. If by “glowing” he means I don’t look like I’ve been crying myself to sleep for weeks, I guess the sun did help mask that. He knows it, too; I see the subtle question in his eyes behind the teasing.Are you okay?they seem to ask.
My mom smiles at us—she’s in full performance mode, voice gentle as if everything is so pleasant and normal. “The trip was just lovely. It was so kind of Chase to invite us to his beach house. Mara had a wonderful time.”
My stomach clenches at the mention of Chase. I keep my face neutral, though I feel Zane’s hand brush mine for an instant, atiny secret squeeze of reassurance. Or maybe a warning. I can’t gauge it yet.
“Oh, I bet,” Zane replies with an easy laugh. “Nothing like sand and sea to cure the winter blues, right Mars?”
“It’s good to see you,” I say, sincerely. My voice is quiet but steady. There’s a world of things I want to say, questions I want to ask, warnings I want to give him, but all of those are barricaded behind my teeth. Instead, I add lightly, “I’ve missed you, Zane.”
He beams at that, and I can tell the smile is at least partly real. “Missed you too. It’s been way too long since our last hangout.”
“All right, you two,” Mother says, ever the director of this little play. “Let’s move to the dining room. Lunch is ready.” She turns and leads us down the hall and around a corner.
Zane falls into step beside me, our arms brushing. Under his breath, barely audible, he murmurs, “Smile.” Immediately, he follows it with a louder, cheerful comment. “I’m starving, Mrs. Black. You always have the best chefs.”
The formal dining room could seat twenty, but today, it’s set for three at one end—an intimate arrangement that still feels ridiculously stiff. A bouquet of white lilies centers the table, a tasteful touch that can’t quite mask the faint antiseptic smell that always lingers in this house. Or maybe that’s just in my head.
A member of the household staff stands by, ready to serve. Mother takes the head of the table, gesturing for Zane and me to sit on either side of her. Naturally, she’s keeping us in her line of sight. I’m actually surprised she’s not sitting between us. Perhaps she thinks I’m beyond needing such literal separation, or she trusts Zane enough.
