Page 83 of The Devil of Downtown

She thinks about that. “Do you think that’s why he’s sad?”

I stroke her hair. “If someone isn’t happy,” I say, voice soft, “you can’t make them happy. They have to be happy for themselves.”

She nods like she understands, even though she probably doesn’t. She yawns. “Is that true for grown-ups too?”

“Especially for grown-ups.”

Her eyes drift closed a moment later, her breathing soft and steady against my arm.

I close the book quietly and sit there a moment longer, watching her tiny hand curled around mine.

Then another thought slips in—quiet, sharp, unavoidable:

You can’t force someone to love you, either, no matter how much you may want that.

I exhale slowly, feeling the weight of unease settle.

Because when I think about the last couple of weeks...the stolen nights...

Dane’s mouth on mine...his steady certainty, his hands, his heat—

none of it feels like something I can keep.

Chapter twenty

Dane

“What a shitshow,” I mutter under my breath as Mitzy grinds over Dad at the center of the dancefloor, her eyes feasting on me.

“A very expensive shitshow,” Julian drawls, taking a long pull of his cigar, smoke curling in rings.

“And a who’s who of everyone the IRSreallyshould be talking to.”

It doesn’t matter where my eyes land; the ballroom is a glittering display of excess, a five-star playground for the powerful. Politicians shaking hands with men who should be in prison; women in gowns worth more than some people’s annual salary. Everywhere, the sheen of wealth—and the rot beneath it. It’s a lavish display of power, greed, and quiet corruption—all orbiting my father’s impending marriage, a union built with those very values baked into its foundation.

This is my world.

And I see it for exactly what it is.

“On a positive note.” Julian whistles under his breath. “Leandra looks beautiful tonight.”

I’ve been avoiding looking at her—too easy for her to mistake eye contact for encouragement—but now she’s impossible to ignore. She’s pressed in close to Dad and Mitzy, smiling like she’s part of the family. Dad has an arm slung over her shoulder, the other waving me over with a grin that’s already two drinks too loose.

I stay exactly where I am. He responds with a long-suffering sigh and sends Mitzy instead, tottering in my direction, and then turns back to Leandra, the two of them swaying to Frank Sinatra as if this were all part of the evening’s choreography.

Julian snorts into his wineglass as Mitzy crooks a glitter-tipped finger at me, beckoning like a deranged Disney villain.

“Go dance with her,” I bark at Julian.

“What, and miss the pleasure of watching Mitzy dry hump you toFly Me to the Moon?” Julian lifts his brows. “Not a chance.”

I’m seconds from faking my own death when Charlotte drifts up beside us.

“Oh, go on, Dane,” she says, nudging me. “One dance won’t kill you. Itistheir engagement party.”

“I’ll remind you of that,” I tell her, knocking back the rest of my drink. “When Hugo Bexley asksyouto dance. Have you seen how that slimy bastard’s been eyeing you up?”

My gaze slides to the Bexleys. Sloane’s doing an admirable job corralling them—pairing them off with guests who won’t immediately regret the conversation—but even she’s struggling to contain Hugo, who’s so obliterated he’s one sway away from face-planting into the canapé tower.