Tainted Hearts: My Toxic Billionaire

AWARE

Chase's POV

"Your mother doesn't approve of me," Catherine says when I return, amusement threading through her voice like she's already won something.

"My mother doesn't approve of most things." I hand her the drink I've finally gotten around to ordering, watching the ice shift and settle against the crystal. "It's not personal."

"Isn't it?" She arches a brow, swirling her glass, waiting to see if I'll flinch.

I don't answer that directly, because the honest answer is complicated in a way I don't feel like examining under chandelier light. Some truths are better left in the dark, where they can't be picked apart and studied for the damage they're about to cause. I know exactly whose mother I'm about to hurt tonight. I know Sienna is going to hear about this within twenty-four hours, probably from three different people before she hears it from me, each version more distorted than the last, each retelling sharpened into something crueler. I know it's going to land like a betrayal even though, technically, factually, I haven't broken any promise I ever made her. That distinction won't matter to her. It barely matters to me.

I do it anyway.

"There's an after party," I say, watching her face for a reaction. "Smaller, quieter, actual conversation instead of forty people pretending to care about a silent auction. I'd like it if you came."

Catherine studies me for a long moment, her eyes carrying a weight that makes me feel, briefly, like she can see straight through the tailored jacket and practiced charm to whatever it is I'm actually doing here. She tilts her head, considering, the way a woman considers a decision she's already made but wants to pretend otherwise. Something in her expression tells me she's running the same cold calculation I've been running all night, weighing loneliness against consequence and deciding, same as me, that loneliness wins tonight. It's a small, sad kind of kinship, the two of us choosing the easier ache over the harder honesty.

"I probably shouldn't," she says, though she's already glancing toward the coat check.

"Probably not," I agree, and something in my voice must give me away, because her mouth curves.

"You say that like you're daring me to stay anyway."

"Maybe I am."

She laughs, low and knowing. "Give me ten minutes to find my coat."

I watch her walk away toward the coat check, her heels clicking against marble in a rhythm that feels almost deliberate, and across the room, I catch Helena watching me one more time. Her expression has changed since the last time our eyes met, unreadable now, resigned in a way that unsettles me more than her warning did. There's no anger left in it, only something like grief, as if she's already mourning a version of me she used to believe in. She doesn't come over. She doesn't have to. The distance between us says enough.

I know exactly what I'm about to do to Sienna. I know she's going to find out her mother left a gala on my arm, whispered about before she's even had the chance to hear it plainly, dissected over brunch tables and group chats before the sun comes up. I know it's going to cost me something with the one person in my life who's never once needed anything from me except honesty, which I am, at this exact moment, choosing not to give her. The thought sits heavy in my chest, an ache I recognize but refuse to name, refuse to let slow me down.

I do it anyway.

Catherine returns, coat over her arm, that same tired, genuine smile back on her face, close enough now that I catch the faint scent of her perfume, something expensive and deliberate, chosen the way everything about her seems chosen. I offer her my arm the way I've offered it to a hundred women at a hundred events, the gesture automatic, practiced, meaningless. Except this one feels different, feels like the specific, deliberate kind of damage I'm getting frighteningly comfortable causing, the kind that lingers long after the room empties and the lights come back up.

"Ready?" I ask.

"Were you ever really asking?" she says, and takes my arm before I can answer.

We leave together. I don't look back at my mother.

Somewhere across town, Sienna has no idea yet that her whole night is about to change, that the ground beneath her is already shifting without her permission, and some cold, quiet part of me already knows exactly how many phone calls it's going to take before she does.