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A chill sweeps through the room and shoots straight into my veins. Several hundred pairs of eyes bore holes into me. Lana steps in front of me, an angry grizzly mother bear, and I want to hug her for it.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she begins, her voice taking on her gracious PR persona.

I’m thrown back to ourTwelfth Nightreenactment, the discomfort when the scene ended and I felt everyone’s gazes on me. The thought that crossed my mind—how I was meant to be in the shadows.

The same sensation is back tenfold, but there’s also something new in the mix.

A fire licks up my spine, a surging heat scorching my body—anger, indignation, frustration, whatever other emotions colliding into a force to be reckoned with.

Straightening up, I tap Lana’s shoulder. She stops talking and glances at me, clearly concerned.

Staring at the crowd, the reporters in their tuxes with their phones thrusted my direction, the blinding flashes searing my eyes, I focus on the one man who asked the question.

Greg Masters, a sleazy smile on his face, no doubt peeved we’ve ruined his attempt for an immediate payday after the test kitchen incident.

“How can I be lonely at the world’s most exclusive gala surrounded by my friends,” I wink at Lana, “and all these wonderful guests?”

My pulse skedaddles, and I continue, “But I have to say, there are two types of folks who are worried about other people’s loneliness. They’re either kind and empathetic, or they have unmet needs and issues they aren’t dealing with. Let’s guess which of those categories you fall into.”

The asshole’s face reddens as a colleague elbows him. Chuckles sweep through the crowd.

I arch my brow, barely containing my disdain. “I take pro bono cases sometimes. You can find me if you ever want to talk, sir.”

Cheers and applause spear through the audience as I turn away from the sniveling man.

And then I seehimstaring at me.

Rex’s lips are hiked up to the side, his hands clapping like the rest of his entourage. His dark eyes shine with pride and mirth, and for a moment, my traitorous heart skips several beats, my body heating from the intensity of his attention.

Then I see the socialites next to him, grabbing his arm, patting his chest, and the heat swiftly vanishes from my body.

Gritting my teeth, I ignore him, the twinge in my chest flaring again.

Back to the real world, Olivia. This man isn’t for you.

Chapter Forty-Five

She looks glorious.

I froze in my tracks when I saw her the moment I walked into the ballroom. She was the beacon of the lighthouse on a stormy night. It was impossible to look anywhere else.

The purple dress clings to her figure, held together by two tiny spaghetti straps. I could chew them off and watch the top slide to her waist, baring her exquisite tits. Then there’s the thigh-high slit showing a sliver of leg, which I remember digging into my back as I fucked her senseless.

It was almost impossible to leave her in bed this morning. She looked so content, a happy, sleepy kitten curled up next to me, her body marred with marks from our lovemaking last night. When I pulled away, she whimpered. It took Herculean effort to put distance between us because there were more things at stake.

Dangerous things.

I didn’t want to drag her into the mission in case everything went sideways. And so, I put the shackles over my heart, telling myself this vacation, this slice of paradise, was over.

I thought I was setting her free.

But sirens don’t just let you walk away. Even when they try, their song lingers.

Calliope tried to save her lover and still lost him.

And Olivia—the way she lit into Greg Masters? It almost dragged me straight back to her.

I wanted to kill the man when he singled her out, when I saw the panic in her eyes.