(Ashley’s Point of View)
Scott’s hand on mine is a brand, a searing point of contact in the chaotic swirl of the gala. The heat from his skin is a stark contrast to the icy dread that has taken root in my bones since my poker hand with his father. For a dizzying second, I am back in my past, a girl hopelessly in love with the man whose touch felt like the only anchor in a spinning world. Then, the present crashes back in with the force of a physical blow—the whispers from the crowd, the cold hatred in Richard’s eyes, the ticking clock that Nicole has strapped to my back.
“Ashley, we need to talk,” he says, his voice a low, urgent current in the sea of noise. “Not here. Now.”
There is a new fire in his eyes, a desperate, unfamiliar intensity that I’ve never seen before. It’s not the f
