He reaches out to me, but I step back. “I understand.”
“Give my best to your family and Em. Okay?” I roll my lips together. “I’ll be in touch. I promise.”
Dante’s clenching his jaw, his hurt visible, and I hate that.“I’ll be here, Reese.”
The walk to the elevator feels like the longest journey of my life.
The polished doors reflect us both—two people who found something real in a world full of carefully crafted images. I don’t look back. I can’t.
Chapter 45
Dante
Why amI at a club the week of Christmas?
I should be in New Orleans with Reese, meeting her family. Or at least with my own family. Instead, I’m avoiding everyone who cares about me.
I collide with the bathroom counter. My stomach revolts at the absinthe’s bite. Hours of hollow laughter and throwing back shots have scorched my throat raw.
The door slams shut behind me as I stumble into the VIP section. A light flashes. Someone thrusts a phone upward, recording, press badge partially concealed beneath leather, but I recognize predatory eyes.
“Mr. Hastings!” they shout, pushing forward. “Comment about Reese Sinclair?”
The vultures circle. Todd has been rejecting requests all week.Vogue, theStone Times,Vanity Fair, andEsquireare all hungry for my relationship exposé.
Fuck them.
Security moves to eject the reporter, but I raise my hand and choose to nip their questioning in the bud. “No fucking comment.”
I rejoin my table, swarmed with strangers. Someone—nameless in my memory—reaches for me. I recoil, nearly toppling a bottle of Dom.
Mei and Tiago are hunched over their phones. Mari shoots me a judgment-laden glance.
Whatever.
It’s been two days since Reese asked for space. I understand why. I should’ve been upfront with her from the start. I know this distance is necessary, but missing out on being with her is a constant ache.
“Everyone having fun?” I pour myself a shot. “It’s the holidays. Drink up.”
Mari leans forward. “Maybe go easy? You seem—”
My laugh cuts sharp. “What, Mari? Am I not Party Dante enough?”
“Are you for real?” Mari stands, eyes steady with years of seeing through my bullshit.
“Why else are you all here, huh?”
“You act like we’re only your friend because of who you are. Did you forget that I was there for your first Nike deal? When you vomited in my car before ESPN? When your suspension hit? I flew to you first.” She catches herself, jaw tight, remembering my yacht summer that started this mess. “Don’t pretend that you aren’t reverting back to the old you because you’re fucking hurt.”
Was I always this transparent?
The club suffocates me now. “I am fucking hurt, okay? This is the only way I know how to deal with that.”
“That’s not true.” Mari seizes my sleeve, fingers digging into expensive fabric. “Listen to me. Yes, things got messy with the media. But Reese fell for you—the real you. Not the tabloid version, not the highlight reel. She saw past all this shit you hide behind”—she gestures at the VIP section, the bottle service, thehovering paparazzi with their hungry lenses—“to the guy who forgot to perform when he was with her.”
“I’ve never—Mari, I’ve never felt like this about anyone.”
“Drowning in Dom Pérignon won’t fix it.” Mari squeezes my shoulder. “She needs time to redefine herself beyond the spotlight. Maybe you do too. To be just Dante.”
