Chapter 77
The clink of crystal and the rustle of linen napkins barely register above the static under my skin. I sit at this elegant, dimly lit table like a puzzle piece forced into the wrong box, trying to remember how to breathe like I belong. My dress hugs me like a secret, my heels hurt like betrayal, and beside me sits a man who, only moments ago, held me as if I were the only person in the world.
Only now, he’s carefully avoiding eye contact as if I’m a loaded weapon pointed at his carefully curated life.
Thane doesn’t look at me. He does speak, yes. Just not to me. Not anymore.
His voice glides easily into various conversations around the table with investors and board members-
3–even elegant women who laugh too loudly and touch his arms too often. People keep approaching our end of the table like he’s the center of some solar system I’m not privy to, and they can’t help but orbit him.
And Thane? He lets them.
Currently, he’s speaking to a woman on his other side–some tall, leggy brunette in a dress that could probably pay my rent for the next six months. He’s smiling politely, nodding at her every other comment. And occasionally, he tosses a bone of attention toward the man across from him. In other words, anyone and everyone except me.
Ichew my salad without tasting it, watching as his hand rests casually on the tablecloth, not even flinching in my direction.
I hate how aware I am of him. Of his posture, of the clean–cut precision in his voice, of the way his jaw tenses when someone calls his name from another table, but then still shifts slightly to acknowledge their greeting, even offering a smile that feels practiced and filtered.
He’s flawless tonight. And so far away, I could scream.
Itake a slow sip of my water, my lips pressed tight against the rim of the glass to keep from saying something I’ll regret. The remnants of the salad in front of me are a wilted mess by now, but it’s better company than the man I danced with twenty minutes ago.
Beside me, Griffin stabs a cherry tomato with a little too much gusta. “You know,” he murmurs under his breath, “he’s trying real hard not to look like he’s staring at you every thirty seconds.”
My jaw clenches before I say, “Well, he’s succeeding. Congrats to him.”
Griffin Nashes a smile that’s more sympathy than amusement, “He’s a complicated man who thinks brooding is a love language.”
“Mine’s communication,” I deadpan. “Preferably directed at mel
Griffin sighs. “He’s…complicated.”
“Complicated doesn’t give you permission to be an ass.” I stab a too–fancy asparagus spear. “You don’t get to whisper sweet, confusing things in someone’s ear one minute, and pretend they don’t exist the next.”
Thane lifts his wine glass, his lips brushing the rim, while his eyes are on someone across the table who just joined the conversation. His profile is sharp, yet unreadable.
Griffin watches me watching him, and says, “I know it feels like he’s retreating. He does that. Especially when he feels things or overthinks.”
I cut him off with a shake of my head, saying brusquely, “Don’t defend him. Not now.”
A server brings the main course–something with truffle and beef and words I don’t have the patience to pretend I understand–and I push the plate slightly forward, my appetite gone. A polite laugh erupts from across the table, and Thane’s voice joins it.
Of course.
I take another long sip of my drink. When I set the glass down, my gaze snags on his, just for a second. Inky–black and glinting with something I can’t quite name. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something. But then a hand claps him on the shoulder, and he turns away.
Thane stops, mid–sentence with his conversation, and turns to me, finally reacting, “Harley…”
1 step away from the table, and every click of my heels echoes in my head like a countdown. I don’t cry, and I don’t turn back. And I most restainly don’t give him the satisfaction of thinking he still gets to choose when I matter.
I weave through the round tables and designer dresses, past champagne flutes and thousand–dollar watches. No one here knows who I am, and mast don’t even glance my way. But I feel like everyone’s watching me.
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