The interview crawls and whips by in equal measure. Dylan peppers both of us with questions about everything from wedding plans and the Violet Masquerade to my fire dancing. I drop both Grace’s Refuge and Cirque Obsidian’s names several times.
Aiden doesn’t let go of my hand the entire time. Every now and then his hand tenses in mine, or I squeeze his for reassurance. Once Dylan is gone, we can return to the status quo. But for now, I’m taking every ounce of support he’s offering me.
“We’re drawing to a close, but I think we have time for one last question.”
The hungry light rekindles in her eyes. Unease makes the hairs on my arms stand on end.
“Brett Sinclair.”
I freeze. His name repeats in my head, beats against my skull as I stare at Dylan. I’m looking at her, I know I am, but all I can see is Brett’s face, the manic anger that last night when he trashed the kitchen because I had gone with another secretary for a drink and didn’t tell him. Feel the pain explode as he hits me. See the reflection glint on the butcher knife he pulled out of the drawer before I ran out the door.
“Seraphina!”
I blink, snap back to the present. Aiden’s kneeling before me, my hands in his.
“Are you all right?”
Slowly, I nod. “Yes.”
Aiden watches me for a moment, as if to reassure himself I really am okay. Then he surges to his feet and turns with slow, lethal precision.
“Get out.”
Dylan’s smile dims. “We’re almost done, Mr. Hawke.”
“No, you were done the minute you decided to use my fiancée’s pain to boost your ratings.” He walks past her to the elevator and presses a button. The door slides open. “You can leave with the photos you came for and any information shared before that last question. If you publish one thing about that man in that article or any other exposés you write, I will buyGildedjust to have the pleasure of firing you and ensuring you never work in New York again.”
The color disappears from Dylan’s face as she stands.
“The public has a right—”
“To know Seraphina’s and my story when and if we choose to share it.” Aiden points to the elevator. “You have ten seconds.”
Dylan and Liam scramble for the elevator. It would be comical if there wasn’t a buzzing in my ears accompanied by the awful sensation of being trapped. Trapped by my own choices, by the realization that my past will come out eventually.
Aiden walks back to me, his steps slow and measured. He sits in the chair next to me but doesn’t touch me again.
“Do you know about Brett?” I finally ask. My throat is so dry it feels like it’s been days since I’ve had water.
“No.”
There’s no relief to be found. He knows a name. He knows enough from my reaction to surmise what happened. And eventually someone will dig up the sordid details.
“I’d like a little time before I talk about it.”
“Of course.”
I raise my head. His eyes are on me, anger still simmering. It’s odd to see, to know the anger is on my behalf. Aiden rarely displays emotion of any kind.
I clear my throat. “We didn’t have anything planned tonight, did we?”
“Dinner at Le Bernardin. I’ll cancel.”
I start to tell him no, that I can suck it up. But instead, I nod. The thought of going out, of having photographers crowding around, is too much.
“Did you have any plans for the next few days?”
“Work. Practice at Obsidian. Nothing else.”
