27. Chastity
Chastity
The ballroom glowed with soft gold lighting that reflected off crystal chandeliers hanging like frozen fireworks above polished marble floors.
Champagne glasses caught the light at every turn, held by investors in tailored suits and designer gowns who laughed at jokes that probably weren't funny.
Somewhere in the background, a string quartet played something classical and forgettable, the kind of music meant to fill space without demanding attention.
It was elegant. Expensive. Suffocating.
I stood near the entrance for a long moment, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from my dress and scanning the crowd with the practiced casualness of someone who'd learned early how to look comfortable in rooms like this.
The kind of spaces where every smile meant something, every handshake carried weight, every conversation could pivot a merger or sink a deal.
My father was already here. I spotted him near the far corner, champagne in hand, leaning toward a cluster of board members with that particular expression he wore when closing something important.
Confident. Controlled. Every inch the successful executive who'd built an empire through careful image management and strategic partnerships.
My mother stood beside him, perfectly coiffed and radiating the kind of polished warmth that came from decades of practice. She laughed at something someone said, touching the speaker's arm in that practiced way that made people feel seen without actually revealing anything of herself.
The perfect power couple.
The room felt very small suddenly. Too warm despite the carefully controlled temperature. Too bright despite the soft amber glow designed to flatter everyone equally. Too full of people I'd known my whole life who suddenly felt like strangers wearing familiar faces.
Because Wyatt wasn't here. He was somewhere over the Midwest right now, on a plane heading to an away game that would keep him gone for three days.
Three days that had felt manageable this morning when he'd kissed me goodbye and promised to call after the game.
Three days that now stretched ahead like an eternity as I stood alone in this ballroom full of expectations and obligations.
For the first time since moving into his house—since my father had handed me over like collateral in whatever deal they'd struck—I actively hated being somewhere without him.
Hated the absence of his solid presence beside me.
Hated not having his hand at the small of my back, steadying and possessive.
Hated the way my stomach twisted with something uncomfortably close to loneliness as I watched couples drift past in pairs while I stood isolated near the entrance like some lost satellite searching for orbit.
I'd survived twenty-two years without Wyatt Garrison in my life.
Somehow, three weeks with him had rewired something fundamental, and now his absence felt like missing a limb.
My father's eyes found me across the room almost immediately.
He excused himself from his conversation with practiced ease and crossed to me, champagne still in hand, wearing that particular smile that meant we were on display. The one that looked genuine to anyone who didn't know better.
"You look beautiful tonight."
I smoothed my dress again, searching for the warmth his compliment should have triggered. Found only a hollow sort of acknowledgment instead.
"Thanks, Dad."
My mother materialized beside him, perfume arriving before she did—something expensive and floral that couldn't quite mask the sharper scent beneath it.
She leaned in to kiss my cheek, and I caught it then.
The faint, unmistakable smell of alcohol on her breath.
Not enough to be obvious to anyone standing more than a foot away, but enough that I noticed.
She'd been drinking before the event even started. Her smile stretched too wide, pulled too tight at the corners. Something brittle lived in her eyes that I'd learned not to examine too closely.
"Darling, I'm so glad you could make it."
My father's hand settled on my shoulder, steering me subtly toward the center of the room where the most important clusters had formed. Guiding me like a chess piece he was positioning for maximum strategic advantage.
"Investors are excited tonight," he said, voice pitched low enough for intimacy but loud enough to project confidence. "Everything is finally coming together."
The words landed wrong somehow. Too weighted. Too deliberate. Like I was part of the presentation he'd spent months preparing. Another carefully curated element in the merger pitch, right alongside the quarterly projections and synergy reports.
Look—we have stability. Image. Legacy. Even my daughter understands the importance of appearances.
I glanced at my mother, searching for something I couldn't name. Some acknowledgment of whatever tension was coiling tighter in my chest with every passing second.
She just smiled that tight, forced smile and took another sip of champagne.
"The press has been very positive about you and Wyatt," my father continued, turning me slightly so we faced the room together. Like we were surveying a kingdom instead of a corporate event. "It's helped the narrative considerably."
The narrative.
Not our relationship.
Not you seem happy.
The narrative.
Something cold slithered down my spine.
I'd spent three weeks learning what Wyatt's hands felt like on my skin, what his laugh sounded like when I said something that genuinely surprised him, what it meant when his voice dropped low and rough with my name on his lips.
And my father was calling it narrative.
My father's hand tightened slightly on my shoulder—barely perceptible, but enough to signal the conversation wasn't finished. "Chastity, there's someone here I think you should reconnect with."
My stomach dropped before I even turned. Some instinct older than thought recognized the danger before my conscious mind caught up. The particular quality of my father's voice when he was maneuvering pieces into position. The way my mother's champagne glass paused halfway to her lips.
I turned. And there he was.
Perfect hair swept back in that deliberately casual way that probably took twenty minutes and three products. Smug smile that had once made me feel chosen and special before I'd learned it was just another mask he wore. Tailored suit that screamed old money and new ambition in equal measure.
Connor Matthews.
My ex.
Standing there like he belonged. Like the past two years of blessed absence had never happened. Like I hadn't spent months after our breakup learning to sleep without flinching at unexpected sounds.
"Chas." His voice carried that particular warmth he always used when other people were watching. "It's been a while."
Rage surged through me. Hot and immediate and so visceral I tasted copper. Not fear—I'd moved past fear somewhere between the first time Wyatt had looked at me like I mattered and the hundredth time he'd proven words with actions. Just pure, crystalline fury.
I turned sharply to my father, not bothering to hide the edge in my voice. "You invited him?"
My father's expression shifted into something I recognized too well. Disappointment wrapped in patient correction, like I was a child who'd forgotten basic manners instead of a grown woman confronting a calculated ambush.
"It's a networking event. Be polite."
Like my comfort mattered less than appearances. Like the months I'd spent rebuilding myself after Connor had systematically dismantled my confidence were less important than whatever business connection my father was cultivating.
Connor leaned closer, invading space he'd lost the right to occupy years ago. "We should catch up."
My skin crawled.
Every instinct Wyatt had carefully nurtured over three weeks—the ones that said I deserved respect, that my boundaries mattered, that I didn't owe anyone access to myself just because they demanded it—screamed in unified protest.
I stepped back. Put distance between us that felt simultaneously too small and achingly insufficient.
Connor's smile never wavered, but something flickered behind his eyes. Something that recognized the change even if he didn't understand its source.
I wasn't the girl he'd left anymore.
My father excused himself moments later, drawn away by someone whose name carried more weight than my obvious discomfort.
He squeezed my shoulder once—a gesture that probably looked paternal from across the room—and left me standing there with Connor like I was an item he'd placed on a shelf for later retrieval.
My mother had already drifted toward the bar.
Connor watched my father disappear into the crowd, then turned that calculated smile back on me. The one I'd once thought was charming before I'd learned to recognize the calculation beneath it. "Should we get some air?"
It wasn't really a question.
He was already moving toward the balcony doors, assuming I'd follow because I always had. Because for two years, I'd made myself smaller and quieter and more accommodating until following him felt like the only option that wouldn't trigger an explosion.
My feet moved before my brain fully engaged. Muscle memory from a version of myself I'd spent months trying to bury.
The hallway leading to the balcony was quieter, insulated from the main ballroom by heavy doors and thick carpeting that swallowed sound. Ambient lighting cast everything in amber shadows that felt less elegant and more predatory.
Connor stopped near the balcony doors but didn't open them. Just turned to face me with that particular expression I remembered too well. The one that said he was about to say something cutting disguised as concern.
"You look good," he said quietly.
The compliment landed like an assessment. Like he was cataloging changes and deciding whether they met his approval.
I folded my arms across my chest, putting a physical barrier between us even though we stood several feet apart. "What do you want?"