I can’t breathe.
Which feels dramatic considering I’m in an art gallery with high ceilings, air conditioning, and three strategically placed diffusers that smell like lemongrass and money. But here I am, standing in heels I can barely walk in, dress zipped too tightly across my ribs, and suddenly my lungs refuse to work.
Because she’s here. With Axton freaking Rowe.
They’re here. Together.
She’s laughing at something he just said, her manicured hand resting lightly on his chest like she owns him. Like he’s hers. And maybe he is.
Ashley.
Ashley the skank. Ashley the snake. Ashley, the reason my relationship with Monty went up in flames.
I feel the panic in my throat first, rising like I swallowed a balloon made of shame.
I duck behind a sculpture of what looks like a melted cello an
