“Montreal.”
“Right. Maybe we’ll manage to find an hour of free time to take in the sights.”
If Mason can tell I’m joking, he doesn’t let on. “Doubtful.”
“Thank you, I know.”
The smoky herb flavor of the tequila still sits on my tongue, making me feel more than a little nauseous. I grab the nearly empty champagne bottle from the ice bucket and pour myself another glass to wash the flavor away. Holding up the champagne flute so it glitters like liquid gold in the club lights, I try to remember when I started mixing in the hard liquor.
I have the clear thought that I’m going to regret this in the morning before downing the glass.
Mason studies me silently. I can practically feel the urge to reach for my glass that he’s suppressing.
“Thank you,” I say suddenly, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
Mason tilts his head. “For?”
“Everything. Being here. Putting up with my shit. Making sure I don’t end up face-down in a gutter somewhere.” I down the last tequila shot on the tray at our table, grimacing at the burn. “You take such good care of me, Mase. Better than I deserve.”
His expression softens in a way that makes my chest ache. “Phoenix?—”
“I need another round.” I hold up the empty glass like it’s evidence of something important. “Whatever this was. The expensive stuff that doesn’t taste like paint thinner.”
Mason stands with another sigh, straightening his jacket. “Water first.”
“Buzzkill.”
“Always.”
He disappears into the crowd, navigating the press of bodies with practiced ease. I watch him go, appreciating the way his tailored suit clings to his slim shoulders. Mason’s always been beautiful in an understated way—not flashy like the actors and models cramming this place, but refined. Elegant. The kind of handsome that sneaks up on you until one day you realize you’vebeen staring at his hands while he types emails and wondering what they’d feel like tangled in your hair.
Stop it.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the inappropriate thoughts. Mason is off-limits. My assistant. My friend. The only person in this entire city who actually gives a damn about me as more than a meal ticket or a stepping stone. I won’t ruin that by getting drunk and making a pass at him.
Even if sometimes, when he looks at me with those storm-gray eyes, I swear I see something more than professional concern.
The crowd parts momentarily, and I spot Atticus across the room. He’s holding court in a corner booth, surrounded by the kind of women who make their living being photographed in bikinis on yachts owned by men they’ll never sleep with. One of them—blonde, legs for days, breasts that defy gravity—drapes herself across his lap while another whispers something in his ear that makes him laugh.
Our eyes meet across the chaos.
He raises his glass in a mock toast, that infuriating smirk playing at his lips. Like we’re sharing some private joke. Like he didn’t just manipulate me into a fake relationship for publicity.
I glare back, reaching for my glass to return the gesture with maximum sarcasm, only to remember once again that it’s empty. My hand closes on air, and I nearly knock over the bottle in my embarrassment.
Atticus’s laugh carries over the music, rich and genuine. The blonde in his lap turns to see what’s so funny, and I want to sink into the leather booth and disappear.
Screw him.
I pour out the last of the champagne, not even caring that I spill half of it. The alcohol washes away some of the humiliation, but not enough. Never enough.
Around me, the VIP section writhes with Hollywood’s elite. Actors, musicians, influencers—whatever that means—all pressed together in a display of wealth and desperation that would be sad if it wasn’t so pathetic. A beta actor from a superhero franchise, who makes up for his lack of alpha muscle by performing all of his own stunts, grinds against a woman who definitely isn’t his wife. Two omega models compare filler results in the bathroom line. An alpha director old enough to be my grandfather holds court with girls who probably weren’t born when his first movie came out.
This is my world. My glamorous, enviable life that millions of people dream about.
I’ve never felt more alone.
The thing about being surrounded by people all the time is that it makes actual loneliness so much worse. Like being starving at a banquet where all the food is plastic. Pretty to look at, but ultimately empty. Useless. Fake.
