But all I could feel was the weight of it finally being over.
Beckett appeared beside me, quiet as always, holding two glasses of water instead of champagne. I didn’t even hear him approach. He offered one out without saying anything at first.
“You killed it,” he said finally, voice low enough that I almost missed it over the music.
I smiled faintly. “I survived it.”
“Same thing.”
Our fingers brushed when I took the glass. Even through the condensation, that small touch felt too warm. I sipped to cover it. “Thanks for coming,” I said softly.
He glanced out toward the city, his expression unreadable. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Simple. Casual. But the words landed somewhere deeper than they had any right to.
For a moment, neither of us said anything. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was thick, charged, the kind that made your chest tighten because you didn’t trust what might slip out next.
Then someone called his name from across the room—one of his teammates, laughing, waving him over. Beckett looked at me like he didn’t really want to go but knew he had to.
“Duty calls,” I said, forcing lightness into my tone.
He gave a half-smile. “Yeah. Don’t let them talk you into karaoke.”
I laughed softly. “I make no promises.”
And then he was gone—just like that. Back into the crowd, swallowed up by the movement and laughter and noise.
I turned back to the balcony doors, exhaling slowly. The tension drained from my shoulders, leaving behind only exhaustion and the faint ache of something unnamed. I let the music drift over me; the saxophone winding around the chatter like smoke.
This was supposed to be the happiest night of my life.
The foundation had pulled through. The sponsors were secured. The kids’ futures were safe. I’d done everything I’d set out to do.
So why did it feel like the start of something else entirely?
Out on the terrace, flashbulbs went off—reporters catching shots of donors and athletes. The bright white bursts flickered like fireworks, like applause that had long since faded for me.
Inside, I leaned against the doorframe, letting the night air cool my skin. The sound of the city, the soft laughter behind me, the faint echo of Beckett’s voice—it all blended together until I couldn’t tell what was victory and what was longing.
For the first time in months, I felt free.
And utterly uncertain about where that freedom might lead.
Chapter 24
Beckett
The lights backstage had gone low, the kind of tired glow that made everything softer—less grand, more real. The catering crew was already packing up, heels and laughter echoing down the hallway from the main ballroom. I lingered near the curtain, one hand resting against the frame, not ready to leave yet.
Through the narrow gap, I could see her. Ellery.
She’d kicked off her heels somewhere between speeches and goodbyes, bare feet tucked beneath the edge of that ridiculous silver gown. The train pooled around her like spilled light, a few strands of hair falling loose from the elegant twist she’d started the night with. She wasn’t posing or smiling for anyone now—just standing there, quiet, looking out over the tables as if she was taking inventory of everything she’d built and everything it had cost her.
She looked wrecked and perfect at the same time.
Everyone else was celebrating. The sponsors, the donors, even some of the players—they were laughing, clinking glasses, taking pictures for socials. The night was a success by every definition that mattered. But she wasn’t part of it anymore. She stood a few steps apart, her shoulders tight, her expression calm in that way people look when they’ve been holding it together too long.
I told myself to walk away—to leave before she saw me hovering like an idiot—but I didn’t move.
