Fangs, Fate & Other Bad Decisions novel Chapter 72

Chapter 72

The car rolls to a stop in front of the five–star hotel, and for a moment, I stay rooted in the back seat like a coward. Velvet hugs my body in all the right ways, but suddenly I feel like I’m wearing someone else’s skin. Someone brave. Someone bold. Someone who doesn’t get ghosted by Impossibly beautiful men and spiral over it for five days.

Mike’s voice is soft but steady from the front seat You’ve got this, kid.”

I nod, swallow the lump in my throat, and step out into the night.

The lobby gleams like a high–budget fantasy: marble floors, golden chandeliers, and people who seem to have been born knowing how to network I don’t recognize a single face, which should make me panic, but oddly…it doesn’t. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from surviving heartbreak, crap parents, and the horror that is hot wax on sensitive areas, is that you have to fake it. And with Nair,

I square my shoulders, channel ny inner chaos–goddess, and strut toward the ballroom with the confidence of a woman who owns every man in the room–and would sell them for a decent latte.

Inside the opulent ballroom that’s

draped in gauzy silks and what seems like thousands of fairylights, the gala is already in full swing. Crystal glasses clink, laughter spills around me like champagne, and a jazz band plays something smooth and sinful from the far corner. The room sparkles with old money, new ambition, and uncomfortable red–bottomed heels,

I head to the bar with a purposeful stride. Like I have someone to meet. Like I’m not scanning the crowd for tall, broody shadows with too–sharp cheekbones.

When the handsome bartender spots me, he raises a brow and asks, “What’ll it be?

“Something strong, elegant, and capable of giving me better life choices in under thirty seconds.”

He chuckles and slides me a glass of something amber with a twist of orange. I take the drink and lean one hip against the bar’s edge. Then I take

| sip, and it burns just enough to feel like a hug from someone with unresolved trauma. I can do this, I give myself a mental pep talk. I’ll just float through the night like I’m made of luxury and sarcasm.

It’s not long before people start to notice me. For eyes to linger and smiles to widen. It’s not the usual bar crowd kind of attention–it’s more refined, more respectful. Mostly.

A silver–haired gentleman in a tux stops by, charming as hell and clearly enjoying my sarcasm. We chat about literature and whiskey, and he offers to introduce me to the event organizer. I politely decline, claiming I’m only here for the drinks and people–watching.

A younger guy slides in next. He’s handsome in a clean–cut, boy–next–door kind of way. He compliments my dress, I compliment his tic, and we both pretend not to notice he’s staring at the bare strip of my leg that’s peaking through the thigh–high slit.

Then it’s another older man with salt–and–pepper hair and the kind of confidence that says, ‘I own three vineyards and have opinions about jazz.” He introduces himself as Julian and offers to buy me my next drink–which I accept.

Another man tries a pickup line that involves Shakespeare and hot sauce. It’s horribly bad, but I laugh anyway. Because it feels good to laugh.

There’s also another guy, Liam, I think, with a dimpled smile and a laugh like warm whiskey. He leans in just enough to be charming, but not creepy. He asks about my work, my dress, and if I’m here alone,

I don’t flirt

irt with all of them. Just enough to remember I’m still magnetic, and still someone worth orbiting.

A few more drift closer, drawn by whatever invisible magnetism velvet and mystery seem to create in settings like this. It’s not slezzy. Not really. Most are polite, charming in that glossy, gala sort of way. A few are genuinely funny. And for a while, I let myself enjoy it. Let my laughter bubble up naturally. Let the warmth in my chest distract me from the dull ache just beneath it.

The ache that screams that they don’t feel Like Thane.

None of them looks at me like I’m carved from something rare and dangerous. None of them makes my skin tighten with awareness from across a room. None of them feels like lightning caged in a man’s body.

And maybe that’s a good thing-

Julian lifts his glass and charmingly says, “You look like you should be in a painting.”

1/2

glance towards the dance floor. It’s beautiful in that glimmering, slow–motion kind of way, with couples sweeping across its polished wood, the lights catching on sequins and smiles. It feels a little surreal. But also…maybe just what I need.

“Not yet,” I say Tay

He extends his hand with boyish charm and warmth, asking, “May I have the honor?”

I hesitate for only half a second. Because I’m not here to pine, I’m not here to wait, I’m here because I said yes, because I look damn good, and

because I want to.

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