Page 144 of Broken Blades

He was already moving toward the balcony doors, assuming I'd follow because I always had. Because for two years, I'd made myself smaller and quieter and more accommodating until following him felt like the only option that wouldn't trigger an explosion.

My feet moved before my brain fully engaged. Muscle memory from a version of myself I'd spent months trying to bury.

The hallway leading to the balcony was quieter, insulated from the main ballroom by heavy doors and thick carpeting that swallowed sound. Ambient lighting cast everything in amber shadows that felt less elegant and more predatory.

Connor stopped near the balcony doors but didn't open them. Just turned to face me with that particular expression I remembered too well. The one that said he was about to say something cutting disguised as concern.

"You look good," he said quietly.

The compliment landed like an assessment. Like he was cataloging changes and deciding whether they met his approval.

I folded my arms across my chest, putting a physical barrier between us even though we stood several feet apart. "What do you want?"

His smile turned sly. Knowing. The kind of expression that used to make my stomach drop because it meant he'd discovered something he could use against me. "I saw the pictures. You and Wyatt Garrison."

My jaw tightened automatically. Every muscle in my body went taut, bracing for whatever verbal knife he was about to slide between my ribs. "And?"

Connor's eyes traveled over me with that same assessing quality, like I was a problem he was solving rather than a person standing in front of him. "You always did like dangerous men."

The words carried a particular weight. An implication that managed to be both condescending and possessive simultaneously, like he was commenting on a personality flaw he'd discovered during our relationship rather than acknowledging any role he'd played in creating it.

Something hot and fierce surged through my chest.

I stepped closer, eliminating the careful distance I'd maintained, close enough that my next words wouldn't carry beyond the two of us. "You don't get to talk about my life." My voice came out ice-cold. Sharp enough to cut.

His hand shot out. Fingers wrapped around my wrist in a grip that wasn't quite painful but carried the memory of every time he'd grabbed me to make a point. To stop me from leaving. To remind me who held control in our relationship.

Instinct exploded through me. Not thought. Not calculation. Pure, visceral reaction.

My free hand moved before conscious decision engaged.

SLAP.

The sound cracked through the hallway like a gunshot, sharp and unmistakable and impossibly loud in the carpeted silence.

Heads turned from the ballroom entrance. Conversations stuttered mid-sentence.

Connor stared at me, hand still frozen where I'd wrenched my wrist free, eyes wide with genuine shock beneath the carefully maintained facade.

I met his gaze without flinching. Without apologizing. Without making myself smaller to accommodate his wounded pride. "Don't ever touch me again."

I turned and walked away before he could respond, spine straight, head high, hands trembling with adrenaline but refusing to show it. For the first time since our breakup—since I'd spent months convincing myself his behavior was somehow my fault—I felt powerful.

My pulse hammered against my ribs so hard I thought it might crack bone. The slap still burned across my palm—a sharp, visceral reminder that my hand had connected with Connor's face. That I'd done something I never would have dared months ago. That some fundamental shift had occurred inside me that made standing up for myself feel less like rebellion and more like breathing.

But the adrenaline flooding my system wasn't satisfaction.

It was panic.

I needed to leave. Needed air. Needed space that didn't smell like champagne and expensive perfume and barely concealed judgment.

Needed Wyatt.

God, I needed him with an intensity that should have terrified me but instead just felt like truth. Like my body recognized his absence as a wound that wouldn't stop bleeding until he was beside me again.

I moved through the ballroom on autopilot, avoiding eye contact, navigating around clusters of investors and board members with the practiced ease of someone who'd spent a lifetime learning how to be invisible at these events when necessary. The private lounge would be quieter—the smaller room off the main ballroom where my father usually held court with his inner circle, conducting real business while everyone else drank champagne and pretended the party mattered.

I just needed five minutes. Five minutes to breathe and collect myself and figure out how to survive the rest of this evening without Wyatt's steadying presence.