Then she’s gone, swept into conversation with a group of donors.
“You’re staring,” Derek mutters beside me.
“No, I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.” He takes a swig of his beer. “And so is everyone else. You two aren’t as subtle as you think.”
I tear my gaze away. “We’re not—”
“Save it.” He shakes his head. “Look, I get it. She’s hot, you’re into her, whatever. But Mark’s watching. The press is watching. Everyone’s waiting for you to slip up.”
“I’m not going to slip up.”
“Really?” Derek’s eyebrow arches. “Because you look like you’re about two seconds away from dragging her out of here.”
He’s not wrong.
I down my whiskey in one gulp. “I need air.”
“Storm—”
I’m already moving, weaving through the crowd toward the exit. The ballroom opens onto a terrace, and I step out into the cool night air, grateful for the space to breathe.
The city sprawls below, all lights and noise and life. I lean against the railing, hands gripping the cold metal.
“You okay?”
I turn. Olivia stands in the doorway, arms wrapped around herself against the chill.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask.
“I saw you leave. Thought I’d check on you.” She steps closer but keeps her distance. Always keeping distance now. “Derek said you looked like you needed air.”
“Derek talks too much.”
A small smile. “He’s not wrong though.”
“No. He’s not.” I turn to face her fully. “I hate this, Olivia. Watching you across a room and not being able to touch you. Pretending we’re strangers. It’s killing me.”
Her expression softens. “I know.”
“Do you? Because you seem fine. You seem like nothing’s changed.”
“That’s what I’m good at, remember? Pretending.” She moves closer, and now there’s only a few feet between us. “But I’m not fine, Carter. I’m miserable. I wake up every morning reading comments about what a terrible person I am. I go to work and everyone looks at me differently. And the only person I want to talk to about it is the one person I can’t be seen with.”
The pain in her voice breaks something in me.
“This is bullshit,” I say, low and fierce. “We shouldn’t have to hide.”
“But we do. At least for now.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.” She glances back at the ballroom. Through the glass, I can see people dancing, laughing, completely unaware of the battle happening out here. “Mark says until the heat dies down. Could be weeks. Months. Maybe—”
“Maybe never,” I finish.
She doesn’t deny it.
