More Rumors in the Ballroom — Sydney’s POV
1450 Words
I forced myself to step away from the curtain before I do something stupid… like walk right in there and demand a truth I’m not ready to hear.
My breath shakes as I make my way back into the main ballroom.
The lights feel too bright.
The music feels too cheerful.
Like the entire world is mocking me with glitter and trumpets.
I grab a glass of water from a passing waiter just to have something to hold. My hand trembles against the cool crystal.
Focus, Syd.
You’re here for the foundation.
For the kids.
For everything you’ve built with your entire heart.
Not for a man who may or may not be cracking that heart in half.
But every time I blink, I see Marcus’s face close to hers.
His eyes downcast.
Her smirk—God, that smirk—like she owns him.
I swallow hard.
“Sydney!” someone calls from the right. I paste on a smile that feels too heavy and turn.
It’s Mrs. Forrester, one of the biggest donors. She has a bright red dress and a personality that can wrestle a tornado. “Darling, you look breathtaking tonight.”
“Thank you,” I manage.
“And Marcus? Where’s that young man of yours?”
A knife twists. “Just… doing some back-end work.”
“Oh, good. I wanted to congratulate him for supporting you girls at Cradle Heart. That boy is a keeper.”
A keeper.
My throat closes.
If only she knew how badly my heart wants to believe that.
“Excuse me for a moment,” I say as politely as possible.
She nods, waving me off with a warm smile that feels like a blanket I wish I could curl into. But I walk away before the heat behind my eyes turns into tears.
Not here.
Not in front of everyone.
Not in the ballroom where I’m supposed to look like hope personified.
I head toward the refreshment hall on the left—small, dimmer, quieter. It’s connected to the ballroom but tucked enough that I can breathe without the entire event watching me inhale.
I lean on the counter, shutting my eyes.
Seven years.
Seven years of loving Marcus.
Seven years of trusting him more than myself.
Seven years… and now a whisper, a distance, a look… is crumbling everything?
“Get it together,” I whisper to myself.
I inhale deeply.
Christmas roses.
Pine.
Warm pastries.
It should comfort me.
Instead, it stings.
“I need to see him,” I mutter.
I need clarity.
I need him to tell me—directly—to my face—that nothing is happening.
That I’m imagining things.
I need him to hold me and say I’m still his.
Because right now, the silence between us feels like the prelude to something devastating.
I turn—
And collide with someone standing near the corner.
“Oh!” I step back. “Sorry, I—”
My breath freezes mid-throat.
Drake Hamilton stands there.
The Drake Hamilton.
The man whose family name is literally printed in gold across the hotel entrance.
The hotel heir.
The rumored workaholic.
The silent investor in half the charities in the city.
And the man with the storm-gray eyes who caught me when I nearly fell in the corridor earlier—my little pre-heartbreak foreshadowing moment.
He lifts a brow. “Rough evening?”
My mouth opens… but nothing comes out.
Of course he sees it.
Of course he knows I’m an emotional volcano about to ignite.
Drake tilts his head, studying me with a calm intensity that feels like a warm blanket wrapped around my panic.
“You’re breathing too shallow,” he says softly. “Bad conversations or bad company?”
“Both,” I blurt before I can stop myself.
His lips twitch into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Want to sit for a minute?”
“No,” I say—too quickly. “I’m fine. I just… need air.”
He steps aside, giving me a clear path to the doorway. But before I pass, he speaks again.
“You’re trying too hard to hold it together.”
My heart stutters.
I turn, confused, hurt, defensive.
“And you can tell that… how?” I ask quietly.
“Because you’re standing like you’re holding up a building,” he answers simply.
I blink.
He doesn’t say it like pity.
He says it like fact.
Like observation.
Like he sees it because he’s lived it.
“And,” he adds, “your boyfriend hasn’t looked at you in twenty minutes.”
My pulse jumps.
“You were watching him?” I whisper.
“No,” he says. “I was watching you.”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
Before I can respond, two donors step into the refreshment hall, chatting loudly, and I instinctively move away from Drake, not wanting to look like I’m having a breakdown in front of billionaires.
“I should get back,” I murmur. “Thank you for… whatever that was.”
He nods once. “Anytime.”
Anytime.
Like we’re already something more than strangers.
I escape before the weight in my chest pulls me under.
Back in the ballroom, the energy has shifted again—this time to excitement. Guests are filling in. Photographers start snapping photos. The orchestra transitions to a more upbeat Christmas medley.
Everyone looks so… happy.
I wish I could borrow a piece of it.
As I walk, I spot Marcus entering from stage right. Tyra is right behind him. Their heads are close—too close.
I freeze mid-step.
He doesn’t even look around for me.
Not once.
My heart sinks like it’s tied to an anchor.
I swallow and force myself to walk toward him. Each step feels like I’m dragging invisible chains.
He sees me when I’m just a few feet away.
“Oh hey, Syd,” he says, almost distracted.
Hey?
Just “hey”?
“I was looking for you,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Yeah—sorry. It’s been hectic.”
“Right.” My voice cracks despite my effort. “Marcus… we need to talk.”
He stiffens.
“What about?”
“Us.”
His jaw ticks. “Can it wait until after the event?”
“No,” I whisper.
Because if I wait, I might not have anything left to say.
He shifts uncomfortably, glancing at Tyra.
She watches us with that same knowing, victorious expression.
“Babe,” Marcus sighs, rubbing his forehead. “This isn’t the right time.”
“Then when?” My eyes burn. “Because you’ve been distant all day. Every time I try to talk to you, you run off. And everyone keeps whispering—”
“Sydney,” he cuts in sharply. “Don’t start with the jealousy thing. Not tonight.”
Jealousy.
He called it jealousy.
I step back like he slapped me.
“Is that what you think this is?” My voice trembles, but not from weakness—from hurt. “Marcus, I’m not jealous. I’m scared.”
His expression softens for half a second… then hardens again.
“Look,” he mutters. “You’re overthinking. I’m busy, Tyra’s part of the team, and I—”
“You’re lying.”
He goes still.
I wish I could take it back.
I wish I didn’t say it.
But it’s the truth.
“You’re hiding something,” I continue, my throat tightening. “And you won’t even look me in the eyes.”
He doesn’t.
And that’s the confirmation I didn’t want.
Before I can say another word, the ballroom lights dim slightly—the cue for pre-show preparations.
Tyra steps forward. “Marcus, we need you backstage.”
He nods and turns to go.
“Marcus,” I breathe. “Please.”
He hesitates only a fraction… then walks away.
And this time…
he doesn’t look back.
Something inside me collapses.
A slow, silent shattering.
I stand there, alone, surrounded by hundreds of glittering lights and swirling gowns and cheerful music.
The world is celebrating.
But I’m sinking.
Drowning in the realization that the man I love might already belong to someone else.
And the whispers around me grow louder.
Like a chorus.
A prophecy.
A warning.
“He’s not hers anymore.”
“She’s clueless.”
“They look like a couple.”
“She’s about to find out.”
My hands tremble uncontrollably.
That’s when the orchestra begins the soft intro to the Christmas overture.
The event is beginning.
And my heartbreak is only just getting started.
- Writer
