Conor chuckles, resting against the wall, his head down as if eyeing his shoes, but I think he’s nodding off.
We’re definitely not waking up on time.
I already feel like I’m rolling down a steep hill. The world tips sideways, something hits my ribs, then my head, and many hands grip my arms, hauling me up.
Ah, so Ididroll down. Not a hill, though. The stairs.
That’ll hurt tomorrow.
THIRTY-THREE
Blair
MY EYES STING. Concealer and a heap of foundation barely cover the puffiness—the aftermath of a day spent crying. I stop in the doorway of the Country Club’s private room, mentally preparing before I step into the elegant, luxuriously decorated space.
A warm golden light spills from the chandeliers overhead, casting a warm glow on the impeccably dressed crowd mingling around me. Polite conversation and the clinking of crystal glasses create a humming soundtrack, but I feel like a hollow shell, a puppet going through the motions. A prop in this performance. My father’s done-up doll.
My dress is red as always. It’s inappropriate, with its short, shimmery length leaving little to the imagination. And, as always, that’s what my father wanted me to wear... another task, another demand in this charade.
Gideon Fitzpatrick is impossible to overlook. He towers over the throng, standing by the bar, exuding an air of authority that immediately draws attention. He’s alone, leaning over the counter as he orders a drink.
His gaze scans over me, a satisfied smirk curving his lips as he takes in my attire. “Blair,” he acknowledges, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “Good to see you’re making the right choices. Did you tell Cody first, or did you flee like a coward?”
His snide remark could be a punch to the gut and I wouldn’t tell the difference. He knows exactly which words hurt most. Before I retort, we’re interrupted. Archibald Duke enters the scene, saving the day, in a way. I’m not sure if I was about to retaliate or break down into pathetic, ugly sobs, but neither would have been good.
Archibald’s eyes shine as they sweep over me, a predatory grin taking real estate across his chiseled face. “Good evening, sweetheart,” he greets, taking my hand to press a lingering kiss on the back. “You look very nice tonight.”
In a well-practiced move, my father finds something in the crowd that requires his immediate attention.
“I’ll be right back,” he promises. “Five minutes, Archibald.”
“Take your time. We’ll order some drinks.” He snaps his fingers at the bartender as my father retreats. “Whiskey and a glass of your finest white.”
“Of course, sir.”
Once the bartender turns around, Archibald seizes the moment, resting his grubby palm on my lower back, the gesture serving as a reminder of what he expects tonight.
“Nicedoesn’t do you justice,” he says, leaning closer to my ear, warm breath kissing my neck. “You’re beautiful, sweetheart. And this dress... a masterpiece.”
Playing my role, I smile, thanking him quietly, my attention on the bartender, who takes all but a minute to slide two glasses across the counter.
And once again, Archibald seizes the moment, taking me outside. We sit on the same bench I sat on with Mr. Simons, and I just know tonight will go down the same way.
My mind veers to Cody of its own accord, and the messages I found when I switched on my phone earlier.
Cody: What the hell happened?
Cody: Why did you leave?
Cody: Fuck, B! If you’re running because you’re scared, I get it, but you could’ve fucking said you didn’t want to come!
And then, an hour after those messages, another one arrived, the tone much different.
Cody: Just let me know you’re okay.
The reality of what I willingly, knowingly gave up sinks into my bones. I didn’t have time to think it through when I ran. Now, I wonder how I’ll face him when he returns. How will I explain myself?
Archibald’s touch on my cheek pulls me back into reality. His gaze is gentle, though still aroused, despite the deep eleven marking his wrinkled forehead. “Blair, is everything okay, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his voice a soft whisper. “You’ve been crying, haven’t you?”
