Mia’s the priority now. They’ll take care of her, and I can retreat to my room where I can have my own meltdown in peace.
Hold your nerve, Evan. Hold your fucking nerve.
With a bravado I don’t feel, I offer what I hope is a reassuring smile. “It’s fine, Mimi.”
My words do nothing to relieve the worry lines on her forehead.
“You’re good?” Kenji asks.
I lie through my teeth for my best friend’s benefit. “Of course. I’m going to head up to my room and call it a night. Everything will beokay, Mia. Don’t fret, and text me later.” I give her a quick side hug and step back.
Kenji nods, his expression serious. “Let’s go take these damn pictures. Then we’ll find Cynthia,” he tells her. “We’ll get ahead of this. Minimize the impact.”
Cynthia, head of PR for Abrams-Rhea, is intense to the point of scary, but she’s phenomenal at what she does. It’s smart to loop her in now. If Luca is even thinking about making this into something, Mia’s team can be several steps ahead.
She sniffles, not even glancing back as Kenji and Ren lead her back into the ballroom.
I’m alone now.
It’s how I prefer it, honestly. Especially after what’s happened over the last ten minutes.
Exhaustion sets in, my shoulders slumping and my feet screaming in agony. The encounter with Luca sapped all my energy. All I want to do is get out of this dress, take a hot bath, and scrub away all the bullshit of this night.
I wasn’t prone to elopement as a child, but I swear the urge to leave is always hanging out in the back of my mind. It’s especially strong after I’ve frozen up or stalled like I did tonight. As if fleeing a scene will compensate for my inability to react in the first place.
Hands balled into fists, I stride down the hall with a single destination in mind: my room.
The silence near the elevators is a relief. I hit the button to call the car, tip my head up, and hold my breath.
The familiar sting in my nose and the burn behind my eyes warn me that it’s possible I’ll well and truly break before I make it up to my room. I’d much rather have my meltdown in private, thank you very much. Luckily, the elevator comes quickly and is empty.
Once I’ve scanned my room key and hit the button for the twenty-fourth floor, the gold doors slide shut, revealing my reflection in their shiny surfaces.
They’re only inches apart when a suit-clad arm darts between them, and they spring open.
“Hold it right there.” The voice is deep. Sharp. Familiar.
I slump against the wall of the elevator, defeated. Though before the doors can fully reopen, I force myself to stand up straight and gather my composure.
It doesn’t matter how shitty I feel right now or how much of a mess Iam on the inside. I refuse to earn an emotional hat trick by having a third meltdown in front of Alaric Steele.
So I keep my gaze cast down, determined to hold it together as he squeezes into the small space.
If only I were good at hiding my emotions. My inability is ironic, really, since I’m not always good at expressing myself either. Instead of trying to cover up the war raging inside me, I focus on ignoring Alaric completely, channeling the myriad of emotions roiling inside me into one: anger.
Turns out, it’s not that hard to do.
I am angry. At Luca. For being such a fucking asshole. I’m angry that he’s inside the ballroom right now, enjoying the party I was excited to attend, potentially running his mouth about me. Why did I date him in the first place? The way I disrespected myself for a man who didn’t love me makes my blood boil. It only bubbles more violently when I consider that he may not have evenliked me. His words echo in my head, bringing with them a wave of shame. I’m furious that he said those things to me, and I’m ashamed I couldn’t react quickly enough. That I let my friend fight my battle for me.
Mostly, though, my anger revolves around the man who just stepped into the elevator. I hate that I’m physically attracted to Alaric almost as much as I hate that he’s the most kind, considerate man I’ve ever met. I despise the knowledge that if the circumstances were different, we might have a real shot at a connection. It’s a dagger to the heart—the truth that nothing can happen between us.
I’m angry at the world, myself, and—undeservingly—him.
“Hey.” He checks over his shoulder. Confirming that we’re alone, I’m sure. Then he hits the close-door button.
He doesn’t scan his room key. Or select a floor.
Once we’re sealed inside the car, he turns to me and leans closer. “Are you okay? I didn’t see everything, but I saw?—”
