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Damien hands me a small, white clutch that matches my shoes. “Hanale found your phone in the alley a few days ago. It seems you lost more than your shoes that day.”
I hold the purse close, swallowing down any reaction.
Still, his eyes burn into me, searching for a truth I will never reveal. The air grows thick between us, everyone else disappearing as I get sucked into his deep brown eyes.
Finally, he blinks, breaking the spell. “Perhaps you should be more careful, tonight.” He doesn't say anything else. When the elevator doors open, he strolls inside, staring blankly at me until I follow.
Cold. Hard.
An icy chill runs up my spine as the elevator descends to the first floor. My stomach bounces up into my throat. As we step out of the lobby into the setting sun, my nerves bubble over.
Hanale holds open the passenger door to a brand new, bright-yellow Lamborghini. The obnoxious car begs for attention. A few spectators have already gathered.
My feet falter. My breaths come in short bursts. Instinctively my eyes scan the crowd, searching for him.
I'm not safe here. I stand out too much. The car stands out too much. I can't hide.
“I-I think I should stay . . .”
“We are not having this conversation,” Damien growls in my ear, his warm hand cups the middle of my back. “When we walk into the ballroom, I need everyone to know that I am the most powerful person there. I can't do that without you. You're going.” He loops his arm around mine and guides me to the sports car.
“But . . .”
“I need a distraction and a clear alibi. Tonight, you are both.”
Damien’s eyes are set, harsh. The sweet side he usually reserves only for me is nowhere to be found.The protector I crave is nowhere to be found. Still, I nod and climb into the flashy vehicle. At least all the windows and windshield are heavily tinted. In front and behind us, the three guards split up into awaiting black SUVs.
We're going to a charity gala. There will be people there. It's safe. Despite all of my reassurances, dread still fills my stomach.
* * *
Five glasses of champagne later, my nerves slowly dissipate. He doesn't know. Or he's pretending not to know, waiting until I let my guard down to stab me like I did him. With each passing minute, guilt tugs at my heart, the voices grow louder. Bringing the narrow flute up to my painted lips, I swallow the last sips. Six glasses.
Surrounded by more glamor and glitz than I've ever seen in one place, I stare up at the giant, crystal chandelier.
Beside me, Damien chuckles, just loud enough for me to hear.
“What?” I jerk my head his way.
He's staring at me instead of scanning the tuxedo-clad crowd like he's been doing since we arrived. He laughs again, the twinkle in his eye returning for a brief moment. “Try to act like you belong here.”
I open my mouth but cannot reply. I don't belong here. The voices in my head know I don't belong here.
A waiter walks by carrying a tray of champagne flutes. I place my empty cup on the tray, select a full one, then down half of it. “Who are you looking for?” I shouldn't ask. It's not my business.
“The man who put the hit on my faddah.” There's no emotion in his words, but something dark passes across his features as he guides me toward the silent auction tables.
Private ski chalet in Tahoe for one week. Donated by Mr. And Mrs. Mahelona
In home five-course dinner for two, provided by Chef Rush from Senia
I read through all of the calligraphic descriptions, admiring the thick cardstock more than the actual items for auction.
Two-week private catamaran cruise of the islands. Donated by Damien Aolani
I pause, reading the card again. I scan the long tables in a quick pass. Two more cards hold his name with the same description.
“I thought you were just here to find someone?”
