There’s a soft knock on the doorframe.
“Gemma.” Alder’s voice threads through the curtain like smoke, curling into places I swore I’d sealed shut. “We should talk.”
A suggestion wrapped around a command. Silk over steel. He’s always done this, made me believe I had a choice, when the reality is, I never do.
My pulse hammers, stubbornly unwilling to obey. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
But even I don’t believe it.
The velvet curtain flutters, and I catch the shine of his polished shoes just beneath the hem. Alder knows exactly what he’s doing. Standing close enough that I can feel him, even though we’re separated by a sliver of fabric.
My throat tightens, a hot, painful lump forming as I slip the silky dress down over my flushed skin and zip it up. It’s actually a pretty dress—surprisingly flattering for a bridesmaid gown—but I’m too overwhelmed to care.
“I heard about your job,” he says after a beat.
Of course he did. He’s not just a fixer. He’sthefixer. The one people call when the stakes are too high, the mess too dirty, the fallout too dangerous. He doesn’t just clean things up—he rewrites the narrative. He trades in secrets, spins lies into legends, and buries the truth so deep it forgets how to breathe. If there’s a scandal brewing, he’s already neutralized it. If someone thinks they can hide from him, they’ve already been seen.
Keeping tabs on me is easy.
I don’t answer. What the hell am I supposed to say that he doesn’t already know? That I spent ten years building something only to get pushed out? That I’ve burned through my savings trying to pretend like everything’s fine? That in three weeks, I’ll have nothing?
That I need help?
That I needhim?
No. I won’t give him that.
My hands tremble as I tug on the zipper—I need to get out of this dress and out of this store—but it’s stuck.
He sighs, the sound low, knowing.
“Gemma,” he says, voice smooth as honey, “youdon’t have to do this alone.”
My stomach tightens.
That’s the worst part. The way he says it—so gentle, so understanding—like I made some kind of mistake by leaving and that I should have stayed so he could take care of me.
I force my voice steady. “I’m handling it.”
“You’resurvivingit,” Alder corrects, a shadow of amusement in his tone. “That’s not the same thing.”
I grit my teeth, yanking the zipper again, but it won’t budge.
Damn it.
“I’m Jason’s best man,” he continues. “We’re going to run into each other again.”
Frustrated, I shove the curtain aside and step out, chin high even though my confidence is slipping through my fingers.
“Alder, just—” I exhale sharply. “Just get whatever you came here for and go. I’m sure we can manage to avoid each other for a day.”
I tug at the zipper again, harder this time.
Nothing.
His eyes flick to the struggle, laughter tugging at his lips. “Need help?”
“No.”
