Page 143 of Broken Blades

The narrative.

Not our relationship.

Not you seem happy.

The narrative.

Something cold slithered down my spine.

I'd spent three weeks learning what Wyatt's hands felt like on my skin, what his laugh sounded like when I said something that genuinely surprised him, what it meant when his voice dropped low and rough with my name on his lips.

And my father was calling it narrative.

My father's hand tightened slightly on my shoulder—barely perceptible, but enough to signal the conversation wasn't finished. "Chastity, there's someone here I think you should reconnect with."

My stomach dropped before I even turned. Some instinct older than thought recognized the danger before my conscious mind caught up. The particular quality of my father's voice when he was maneuvering pieces into position. The way my mother's champagne glass paused halfway to her lips.

I turned. And there he was.

Perfect hair swept back in that deliberately casual way that probably took twenty minutes and three products. Smug smile that had once made me feel chosen and special before I'd learned it was just another mask he wore. Tailored suit that screamed old money and new ambition in equal measure.

Connor Matthews.

My ex.

Standing there like he belonged. Like the past two years of blessed absence had never happened. Like I hadn't spent months after our breakup learning to sleep without flinching at unexpected sounds.

"Chas." His voice carried that particular warmth he always used when other people were watching. "It's been a while."

Rage surged through me. Hot and immediate and so visceral I tasted copper. Not fear—I'd moved past fear somewhere between the first time Wyatt had looked at me like I mattered and the hundredth time he'd proven words with actions. Just pure, crystalline fury.

I turned sharply to my father, not bothering to hide the edge in my voice. "You invited him?"

My father's expression shifted into something I recognized too well. Disappointment wrapped in patient correction, like I was a child who'd forgotten basic manners instead of a grown woman confronting a calculated ambush.

"It's a networking event. Be polite."

Like my comfort mattered less than appearances. Like the months I'd spent rebuilding myself after Connor had systematically dismantled my confidence were less important than whatever business connection my father was cultivating.

Connor leaned closer, invading space he'd lost the right to occupy years ago. "We should catch up."

My skin crawled.

Every instinct Wyatt had carefully nurtured over three weeks—the ones that said I deserved respect, that my boundaries mattered, that I didn't owe anyone access to myself just because they demanded it—screamed in unified protest.

I stepped back. Put distance between us that felt simultaneously too small and achingly insufficient.

Connor's smile never wavered, but something flickered behind his eyes. Something that recognized the change even if he didn't understand its source.

I wasn't the girl he'd left anymore.

My father excused himself moments later, drawn away by someone whose name carried more weight than my obvious discomfort. He squeezed my shoulder once—a gesture that probably looked paternal from across the room—and left me standing there with Connor like I was an item he'd placed on a shelf for later retrieval.

My mother had already drifted toward the bar.

Connor watched my father disappear into the crowd, then turned that calculated smile back on me. The one I'd once thought was charming before I'd learned to recognize the calculation beneath it. "Should we get some air?"

It wasn't really a question.