CHAPTER 10
1035 Words
LILLIAN
By the time the night of the event arrived, I was running on equal parts caffeine and nerves. Every checklist had been ticked, every backup plan rehearsed, every detail smoothed over.
My best friend and I had walked ourselves into exhaustion, but I finally stepped into the venue and saw the glittering chandelier and stunning interior. I had to admit, it was worth it.
The hall hummed with quiet elegance, lit just enough to feel warm without being overwhelming. Long tables draped in white linens stretched across the room, each dotted with crystal vases holding soft arrangements of roses. In the corner, a string quartet played, their music weaving through the low chatter and delicate clinking of champagne glasses.
For once, things felt… calm.
My best friend appeared at my side in a sleek emerald dress I’d made for her, the fabric catching the light with every shift of her body. It clung perfectly onto her body before falling loose at the hem, the shimmer turning her into the brightest thing in the room.
“It’s perfect, isn’t it?” She whispered, taking it all in.
I give her a small smile. “Thinking about it, we work as a great team.”
She laughed and floated off to mingle, leaving me to make polite rounds with the kind of polished smile I’d perfected years ago. Joe hasn’t yet called, he's still in Seattle, buried in his conference—so I was free from the charade of holding his arm and pretending to the paparazzi and interviewers. Tonight, I was just a New York IT fashion designer.
Guests moved easily through the space, glasses never empty for long. I drifted from table to table, standing in for Vivian, as I checked in with donors, nodding at both familiar and unfamiliar faces thanking those who I saw on the event donation list yesterday.
Vivian waved at me across the room, mouthing for me to breathe.
I did. I let myself.
Maybe after all this time, I’d been overthinking everything. Maybe the universe wasn’t conspiring against me. Maybe after all, tonight could be just… a night.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Halfway through the dinner, the lights dimmed slightly, and a hush rippled through the room.
I froze, surprise crashing through me as my father rose from his seat at the head table. My breath caught when he took the microphone straight from the MC, his voice rolling out with the practiced authority of a man who’d built strong empires from nothing.
“Tonight,” he said, “we are honored by the presence of a partner who has stood by this agency through years of challenges—a steadfast supporter, and a true friend of our cause.”
My chest tightened. The words hung in the air like bait. I wasn’t the only one—heads lifted, whispers spread across the room. Curiosity radiates through everyone. I knew what I was personally thinking.
Could it be him?
My pulse quickened as a strange thought crossed my mind.
Was this why my father had invited him to dinner two weeks ago?
Vivian, sitting just a few seats down, shot me a look, her brows arched in a silent question.
I straightened, my spine locking in as my stomach twisted in a hard knot, my breath snagging in my throat.
“Please welcome,” my father continued, “Mr. Stephen Markham, CEO of Global Atlantic.”
Applause filled the room as a tall man in his late fifties rose from the crowd, smiling modestly as he took the stage. I blinked, my breath catching in my throat for a reason that had nothing to do with the man currently standing on the stage.
Not Ronan.
The realization struck me harder than it should have. Relief, disappointment, confusion— all tangled together as the sponsor, Mr. Markham, gave a short gracious speech. He thanked the organization and spoke about the importance of the cause and promised continued support.
The crowd clapped, glasses were raised, and just like that, the moment passed.
I pressed a hand to my chest and let out a slow breath. I’ve got this, I told myself.
The rest of the evening unfolded with clockwork precision. Courses were served, the wine flowed, and laughter grew louder as the night went on. I posed for photos with donors, shook hands with executives, and even managed to laugh at a joke or two.
It was almost easy.
I let myself relax into the rhythm of it, into the illusion of control. Each time my best friend caught my eye, I gave her a small nod, letting her know I was fine.
And I almost believed it myself.
The string quartet shifted to something livelier as dessert was served. Guests began moving toward the dance floor, conversations spilling into laughter as the atmosphere softened from formal to celebratory.
I stood near the back of the room, watching it all, a glass of champagne untouched in my hand.
This was how it was supposed to be. Smooth.
Predictable. No surprises.
I told myself that twice, maybe three times.
Then the air changed.
It was subtle at first—a ripple moving through the crowd, heads turning, whispers sparking like static. The kind of shift that happens when someone important arrives, someone no one expected.
I felt it before I saw it. The hairs at the back of my neck stood up, my pulse thrumming as though my body knew before my eyes did.
And then the doors opened.
Ronan Carter stepped into the ballroom, tall and devastatingly composed, his hand resting lightly at the small of a woman's back.
Her.
The woman from the article. Elena Martinez.
She was radiant in a scarlet gown that clung to her like fire, her smile polished, her arm looped through his as though she'd always belonged there. Together, they cut through the room like a blade, impossible to look away from.
The crowd parted for them instinctively, conversations faltering, the music suddenly nothing more than background noise.
My champagne glass trembled in my hand.
Calm. The night had been calm. Smooth. Perfect.
Until now.
His eyes zeroed in on mine, and everything around me went silent.
- Writer
