23

THEA

Have I mentioned that I hate crowds?

I hate crowds. I hate cameras. And right now, I really hate Ezra Harrington.

When he said we had an event to attend, I imagined a boring dinner. Maybe a stiff handshake with some old-money investors.

I did not imagine stepping out of a limousine straight into a wall of flashing cameras, the red carpet stretching out like a death sentence under my heels.

Ezra’s hand curls around my waist as he helps me out of the car, his fingers burning into my skin through the thin fabric of my dress.

Burning. Branding.

I force a smile, teeth clenched so tightly it’s a miracle my jaw doesn’t snap.

Click. Click. Click.

Cameras flash, reporters shout questions I can't hear over the roaring pulse in my ears, and Ezra leans in, his mouth brushing the shell of my ear.

"Smile, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice a low rasp meant only for me. "You're with me now."

Fucker.

I say nothing until we reach the reception area of the huge hall looming before us. And even with that, there are some paparazzi inside.

I wish I could murder this man.

He leads me in, his hand sliding from my backside to hold my hand. The security lets us in without questioning him.

Inside, the hall is a glittering monstrosity.

Golden chandeliers. Gleaming marble floors. Tables draped in ivory linen, surrounded by women in gowns that cost more than my car and men whose smiles are just as fake as the diamonds on their wives’ necks.

And of course, more goddamn cameras.

The moment we step in, a group of men and women beelines for Ezra.

I try to pull my hand away, instinct, pure and simple, but Ezra’s fingers tighten around mine like a vice.

"Ezra," one of the men says, all big teeth and bigger ego. “Didn't know you'd come this year.”

“Of course I will. The….”

I tune out their conversation, my eyes taking in the whole hall when a feminine voice breaks through the air. 

"Didn’t think you’d bring company."

My attention snaps back to them and my eyes latch to her.

She has a small smile on her face, hair slicked back in a bun, elegant cream colored gown that hugs her curves, and eyes that are looking at me like I'm not supposed to stand beside who I am right now.

And, company?

Not a date. Not even a name.

Company.

The man glances at me, a smirk tugging at his lips as he turns back to Ezra. "Is she your assistant? Or something a little more... recreational?"

He asks like he didn't see the news, the scandal.

For a second, I just blink at him.

Then my mouth moves before my brain can stop it.

"Neither," I say sweetly, flashing a smile that feels like showing teeth before a bite. “But don't worry, I'm sure that if you lick his shoes enough, he might let you sit at our table.” 

Ezra's thumb brushes over my knuckles as he lets out a silent chuckle I can feel more than hear.

The woman's face turns grim. The man laughs it off, but I catch the flicker of irritation in his eyes before they turn back to Ezra, diving into mindless small talk about stocks and power moves and whose yacht has a better view.

I tune them out, too busy calculating how much longer my ankles can survive in these death traps they call heels.

When Ezra finally wraps up the conversation, I yank his hand — not hard, but enough to get his attention.

"Take me to your table," I say under my breath, smiling like a pageant queen caught mid-photo. "Or a chair. A corner. A goddamn potted plant. Anywhere I can sit."

Ezra arches a brow.

"And you," I add, voice syrupy sweet, "can keep playing social butterfly all you want. Just don't expect me to flutter along with you. My feet are killing me."

His lips twitch, as if threatening to pull into a smile or smirk or anything that will annoy me.

Then, he says, "You're trouble," as he steers me toward the back where the tables are set up.

"And you're late in figuring that out,” I whisper through my teeth.

A soul music plays at the back as he leads me to his table. He pulls out a chair for me like a proper gentleman. I sink into it with relief, my feet screaming their thanks.

I've never worn heels this long except that night on Finn's birthday.

I choke back a sob. 

I can't cry here.

These days, when I think of Sebastian, all I feel is anger. I can't believe I've wasted nine years of my prime on him. But when I think of Finn…

Good lord.

Motherhood is a losing game indeed. It's like gambling. The emotional one. 

That even though it hurts and sucks, you still can't quit the addiction.

My eyes dart to Ezra.

I watch as he stays standing, smoothing a hand over the back of my chair while his eyes scan the room.

Watching. Calculating.

I clear my throat, and his head snaps to me.

I didn't expect him to hear that over the music. I was just about to tap him a little bit.

“You want to go socialise right?” I ask, head tilted up.

His eyes rake my face, and I see it dart to my lip, then my neck. I flinch, instinctively setting my lips in a thin line while my hands move to cover my neck.

He's… staring like he wants to gobble me up.

His jaw tightens, his eye holding mine before he nods.

“Go.” I say, my voice coming breathy as my head turns back to the table, filled with nothing except the flower vase at the middle.

“Do you want to come with—”

“No.” I say, voice low, interrupting him. “The… the cameras are there.”

They are taking pictures of us. On my path to trying not to lose my career, maybe I'm slowly losing my heart. And I fear that when this façade ends, the pictures of us taken together will laugh at my face, at the broken version of me that's getting moved again.

I can't subject myself to that.

“Just go.” I say with a soft chuckle.

I feel him linger behind me before he leaves.

That's when I finally breathe.

But I only enjoy the absence of Ezra’s scent for a few minutes.

Then the loneliness starts gnawing at my bones.

My eyes rake over the crowd, sweeping from one black-suited man to the next, searching for the familiar broad shoulders, the sleek dark hair and the arrogant tilt of his head.

The lights are dim, everything a hazy blur of gold and shadows. People flit past me in expensive perfumes and louder laughter, and none of them are him.

I should be relieved.

Instead, a hollow ache blooms in my chest.

Maybe I should’ve gone with him. Made a memory out of this night, even if it's one I'll have to pack away like the rest of my life when this charade ends.

I glance at my clutch, the urge to text Lyra clawing at my fingers.

Tell her how much I hate this. Tell her how much I'm losing myself.

But I don't.

I'm supposed to be strong.

And strong women don't cry at events like this.

Strong women don't get attached to men they can't keep just because he breaks into their world without permission.

Strong women network, smile, shake hands, build bridges for the inevitable future where they're standing on their own again.

My gaze snags on a figure across the room—a man in a black suit, half-turned toward a small group, his profile achingly familiar.

Ezra.

Without thinking, I push up from my chair, my heels wobbling a little under me, and take a step forward—

Only to nearly collide with a man stepping into my path.

He’s tall, blond, wearing a tailored navy suit and a smile so polished it probably belongs on a billboard.

"Easy there," he says, laughing like we’re old friends. "Didn't mean to cut off your grand escape."

I blink up at him, heart thudding. I don't recognize him. Not one of Ezra’s usual crowd. But his smile looks genuine enough. Less shark, more golden retriever.

"Sorry," I say automatically, forcing a polite smile onto my face. My voice sounds thinner than I like. "I was just..."

"Looking for someone?" he offers.

I hesitate, my eyes flicking back toward where I thought I'd seen Ezra—but the group has shifted, and the man I thought was him is lost in the sea of black suits and swirling conversation.

Maybe it's a sign.

Maybe I should stop chasing someone who was never meant to be caught.

"Something like that," I murmur.

The man extends a hand. "I'm Nathan Elowen."

The cameras flash again somewhere behind us.

And just like that, I remember: I’m supposed to be networking.

I'm supposed to be surviving.

I slide my hand into his, my smile stretching wider.

"Thea Carlisle," I say. "Nice to meet you, Nathan."