I make my way across the ballroom, nearly-empty champagne flute in hand, until I’ve reached one of the high tables along one wall.
For a few minutes, I lean on the table, watching the dancers in their waltzes. I try to relax a little, listening to the music and letting myself settle into the party.
When I look back over at the table where Reed was talking to the group of men, I can’t see him anymore. A few of them are still there, but he must’ve wandered off. I feel a tiny flicker of annoyance that he’d disappear on me, especially somewhere like this, but I force the feeling down.
This is Reed’s element. He knows what he’s doing in a place like this much better than I do. Whatever he’s up to, it’s probably important. He’ll come back for me soon enough.
I take a deep breath, then down the rest of my champagne. After a few moments’ deliberation, I decide to grab myself a new drink, mostly to keep my hands full while I’m alone.
I set off across the room, toward the open bar. Before I can get there, though, the sound of Reed’s laugh grabs my attention.
I freeze, my gaze pulled toward him. He’s not alone—but he’s not with the group of businessmen, either.
There’s a woman I don’t recognize sitting across from him at a table. She looks like she’s around thirty or so, but shehas a youthful energy about her. Her honey-blonde hair is in gorgeous, shining ringlets around her shoulders. She’s wearing a red dress, and perfectly-applied lipstick to match.
As I watch, she reaches across the table and rests her hand on Reed’s forearm. His expression, the typical easy smile, doesn’t change in the slightest. He says something to her, and she laughs, flashing white teeth.
My stomach twists at the sight of them. She’s so clearly flirting with him, and he’s doing the same thing he always does in response—being his charming self.
It’s an unpleasant, visceral reminder of a fact that’s been lingering in the back of my mind. I’m one of a long line of women who’ve been in Reed’s bed. Even though we’re pretending to be engaged—pretending that our relationship is different—it’s all an act.
I don’t mean any more to him than any of his hookups. This woman here—I wonder if she’s slept with him before, or if she will in the future, once our arrangement is over.
Once we’re done pretending that I’m important to him.
Instantly, despite the expensive dress and the crystals hanging above my head, I feel cheap, like something designed to be used up and discarded. I wrap my arms around my torso, self-conscious.
Reed is a playboy,I remind myself firmly.You knew that going in. Reed is not the type of guy anyone should ever trust with their heart—and you knew that, too.
So why does this make me feel so shitty?
Is it because I was fooled by my own act? Reed is trying to trick any onlookers into thinking I’m special—that he cares about me. Maybe he managed to convinceme,too.
He’s so good at what he does.
There’s a bitter taste in my mouth as I turn away from the table, unable to watch Reed and this strange woman any longer. I continue across the ballroom toward the open bar.
The bartender looks at me questioningly as I set my empty champagne glass on the counter. “Refill?”
“No, thanks,” I say. “Can I get a tequila, neat?”
I’m a little worried that it’s an obviously low-class request, but the bartender doesn’t bat an eye. “You want salt and lime?”
“Yes, please.”
I drum my fingers on the bar counter as he pours a top-shelf, silver tequila over a cube of ice, then hands me the drink. The rim of the glass is encrusted with salt, which offsets the bitterness slightly.
I make my way back to my table, which is luckily still unoccupied, and nurse my drink. I know I shouldn’t be feeling this way, but I can’t help it—I’m hurt. I feel abandoned, like Reed left me to drift at this party while he went back to his old ways.
I can’t watch the dancers anymore. I don’t have the heart for it. I drop my gaze down to the table as the band strikes up a new song.
My sulking is interrupted by a friendly voice. “Hello? Miss?”
I look up and meet the gaze of a young man in a tailored tuxedo. He has short-cropped, sandy hair, and he wears a warm smile as he reaches out a hand.
“Would you care to dance?”
For a second, I hesitate, my gaze shooting across the room. I can’t see Reed from where I’m standing, which is probably for the best—who knows what he’s up to.
