Chapter 12

THEA

I hate these galas.

The lights. The shallow chatter. The endless string of congratulations for things that were already expected of me.

I adjust the strap of my dress as I walk through the grand hall, smile pinned tight on my face like the old brooch that doesn’t go with the outfit but has to be worn anyway. My heels echo against the marble, perfectly timed with the fake laughter that fills the space.

Saturday nights used to mean something else.

Finn in pajamas, begging for one more bedtime story. Me, tucked into the couch with a glass of wine or a cup of hot chocolate and a heating pad because my back was killing me from work… but at least I was home. At least I was… us.

And now?

Now I stand under a chandelier that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, sipping champagne.

I would rather be on my new king-size fluffy bed.

Sebastian used to hate these events. Said it was emasculating to show up at a party held by his wife's company. Told me once that he’d rather shit on his palm and clap or chew glass—got that from him—than shake hands with the men who “patted me on the back like I was one of them.”

I gave him a free invite every year anyway. Like a desperate habit. Like hope.

But he never came.

He always managed to make me feel like I was the one abandoning him by attending.

God, the guilt I used to carry on nights like this.

Coming home late to a dark house, heels in hand, tiptoeing so I wouldn’t wake him, only to find him already awake, angry, waiting. Accusing. And still, never admitting that it hurt his pride more than anything else.

I blink away the sting in my eyes and tilt my head slightly as someone passes, giving me a polite nod. I mirror it automatically, even though I don’t even recognize half the faces here anymore.

I’m about to find a quiet corner when a woman in red strides up to me like, her definitely six inch heels lifting her to my 5”6’ height.

“Ms. Carlisle,” she purrs, all polished charm and perfume that probably costs more than my monthly groceries. “I'm Nadia Halvorsen, M.D. of Elowen & Co.” She says, holding her hand out to me for a shake.

My gaze lingers on it before I give in.

Elowen & Co.—the same firm that’s been clawing at a potential deal with H&V for months now. Unlike us, they’ve been public about their desperation. Press releases. Leaked interest. PR stunts with a capital P.

I pull away after the firm handshake, subtly wiping my palm against my silk gown.

“We’ve actually been hoping to partner with Harrington & Vale,” she says, like I haven’t read the ten-page pitch her assistant sent to my inbox twice. “Which is why I’m here. I’ve got an interview with Mr. Harrington this week.”

She says “Mr. Harrington” like the name itself makes her tongue feel expensive.

Then she tilts her head, eyes flicking over me like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to solve. Or a rumor she’s trying to confirm.

“You two must be close,” she adds, her lips stretching into a thin smile. “I mean, people are talking. Wouldn’t be the first time power and… proximity mix.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Is there a point to this, or are you just here to speculate like everyone else who doesn’t have a backbone?”

She laughs, all teeth and zero sincerity. “No offense. I just thought maybe you could tell me what he likes. Just a few tips. I mean, you clearly bagged him. I only need the tricks to land the deal. He can go back to you after.”

My smile is ice.

Is this the brain she uses to manage a whole company?

God. Is it the same brain she uses while crossing a road?

I don't say it aloud though. I’m too tired. Too polished. Too experienced to say what I really think to women like this, who assume sleeping your way up is a strategy instead of an insult.

But before I can formulate a civil version of ‘get out of my face’, my gaze shifts—

And lands on him.

Ezra. My boss.

Surrounded by other executives like some celestial body pulling everything into his orbit. His black suit is sharp and he looks like he was born in it, and the way he leans slightly to listen to someone speak screams effortless power and…

My breath shudders. God what am I thinking?

He doesn’t see me at first.

But I see him. Every inch of him. From the tilt of his head to the way his lips barely move when he responds.

Then, as if he feels my stare, his eyes lift.

And lock onto mine.

Everything slows.

Then, a slow, knowing smirk curls on his lips. Like he’s been waiting for me to look. Like he knew I would.

And he’s not the only one who notices.

Nadia, still standing in front of me, clears her throat.

I flash her a forced smile, watching as her eyes dart from me to Ezra and from Ezra to me.

Shit.

His eyes were still on me.

A few heads turn. One of the women beside him flicks her gaze from him to me, then back again. Another whispers something to her partner, who glances in my direction with thinly-veiled curiosity.

Great.

Because that’s exactly what I need—more attention.

I drop my gaze first, pretending to adjust my bracelet as I swallow the heat climbing up my neck. My palms are suddenly clammy and I hate that. I hate him for getting under my skin with just one look.

I glance away, letting out a nervous chuckle.

Nadia chuckles too. “So, am I just speculating like others that don't have backbones?”

I smile thinly, my grip on the champagne flute tightening as I try to force myself from looking at him. I can still feel his burning gaze on me.

“About that, just… wear something skimpy.” I guess. “And work on your smile and nose. They are both fake and unfortunately, he doesn't like fake.” I say, my smile intact.

Her nose flares, and I can imagine her being red from anger behind the heavy make-up.

I bow slightly before walking away from her.

I need air.

Not the kind that smells like expensive perfume and ego. Just… air.

Slipping through the crowd, I flash a smile—tight, practiced, and polite. A thank -you -for- coming, don’t- ask- me- anything kind of smile. Eyes follow me. I feel them. I hear the whispers but I don’t stop.

Not until I reach the restroom.

It’s empty. Thank God.

Cool, pristine, and quiet. Every surface gleams like it’s been scrubbed by angels. There’s a faint floral scent mixed with disinfectant. I step into a stall, set the flute of champagne down, close the door behind me, and sit.

Not because I need to. Just to breathe.

My silk dress rustles against the porcelain. I close my eyes, my heels digging into the tile as I lean forward, elbows on my knees, hands clasped like I’m praying.

Maybe I am.

It’s only been thirty-one days. Thirty-one days since the papers were signed. Since I officially stopped being Mrs. Calloway.

And already, I’m back in a damn restroom, hiding from a crowd, from a man, from myself.

Ezra looks at me sometimes like he knows things I haven’t even told myself. Like he’s curious. Like he sees me. Like he wants to gobble me up. And that should be flattering, right? That someone like him even notices? A whole billionaire.

But all I feel is fear.

Because this is how it always starts.

A look.

A smirk.

A conversation that lingers too long.

And suddenly, your job’s on the line.

Your heart’s on the line.

Your sanity’s on the line.

I’ve heard the stories. Hell, I’ve watched the stories unfold in office whispers and HR reports. And they always start with something harmless. A shared drink. A late meeting. A spark you’re too tired to swat away. With your boss. Until the line blurs.

I don’t want that.

Not now.

Not ever.

I chose this for peace. For solitude. For control over something—anything. And I refuse to lose it over a man, no matter how neatly his suit fits or how easily his smile dismantles mine.

I press the heel of my hand to my chest. My heart is racing.

What am I even doing?