27. Chastity #2
His smile turned sly. Knowing. The kind of expression that used to make my stomach drop because it meant he'd discovered something he could use against me. "I saw the pictures. You and Wyatt Garrison."
My jaw tightened automatically. Every muscle in my body went taut, bracing for whatever verbal knife he was about to slide between my ribs. "And?"
Connor's eyes traveled over me with that same assessing quality, like I was a problem he was solving rather than a person standing in front of him. "You always did like dangerous men."
The words carried a particular weight. An implication that managed to be both condescending and possessive simultaneously, like he was commenting on a personality flaw he'd discovered during our relationship rather than acknowledging any role he'd played in creating it.
Something hot and fierce surged through my chest.
I stepped closer, eliminating the careful distance I'd maintained, close enough that my next words wouldn't carry beyond the two of us. "You don't get to talk about my life." My voice came out ice-cold. Sharp enough to cut.
His hand shot out. Fingers wrapped around my wrist in a grip that wasn't quite painful but carried the memory of every time he'd grabbed me to make a point. To stop me from leaving. To remind me who held control in our relationship.
Instinct exploded through me. Not thought. Not calculation. Pure, visceral reaction.
My free hand moved before conscious decision engaged.
SLAP.
The sound cracked through the hallway like a gunshot, sharp and unmistakable and impossibly loud in the carpeted silence.
Heads turned from the ballroom entrance. Conversations stuttered mid-sentence.
Connor stared at me, hand still frozen where I'd wrenched my wrist free, eyes wide with genuine shock beneath the carefully maintained facade.
I met his gaze without flinching. Without apologizing. Without making myself smaller to accommodate his wounded pride. "Don't ever touch me again."
I turned and walked away before he could respond, spine straight, head high, hands trembling with adrenaline but refusing to show it. For the first time since our breakup—since I'd spent months convincing myself his behavior was somehow my fault—I felt powerful.
My pulse hammered against my ribs so hard I thought it might crack bone.
The slap still burned across my palm—a sharp, visceral reminder that my hand had connected with Connor's face.
That I'd done something I never would have dared months ago.
That some fundamental shift had occurred inside me that made standing up for myself feel less like rebellion and more like breathing.
But the adrenaline flooding my system wasn't satisfaction.
It was panic.
I needed to leave. Needed air. Needed space that didn't smell like champagne and expensive perfume and barely concealed judgment.
Needed Wyatt.
God, I needed him with an intensity that should have terrified me but instead just felt like truth. Like my body recognized his absence as a wound that wouldn't stop bleeding until he was beside me again.
I moved through the ballroom on autopilot, avoiding eye contact, navigating around clusters of investors and board members with the practiced ease of someone who'd spent a lifetime learning how to be invisible at these events when necessary.
The private lounge would be quieter—the smaller room off the main ballroom where my father usually held court with his inner circle, conducting real business while everyone else drank champagne and pretended the party mattered.
I just needed five minutes. Five minutes to breathe and collect myself and figure out how to survive the rest of this evening without Wyatt's steadying presence.
And then…
Voices carrying through the partially open door ahead.
Raised voices.
My parents.
I stopped just before the doorway, feet freezing mid-step like my subconscious recognized danger before my conscious mind caught up.
My father's voice came first, tight and controlled in that particular way that meant he was barely holding onto his temper. "Lower your voice."
My mother laughed.
The sound scraped against something raw inside my chest—bitter and broken and soaked in alcohol. Not the polished laugh she used in public. The real one. The one that lived underneath all the careful performance.
"Oh, please. The whole room should hear this."
Ice water flooded my veins.
I should move. Should walk away. Should give them privacy for whatever marital dispute was unfolding behind that door.
But my feet had rooted to the expensive carpet like they'd grown there.
My mother's voice cracked on the next words, raw with something that might have been pain or rage or both twisted together until they were indistinguishable.
"You drag me to these parties so you can parade me around like the loyal wife."
My father's response came fast. Sharp. "You're drunk."
A beat of silence.
Then my mother's voice again, dripping with venom I'd never heard from her before. "Of course I'm drunk."
Another pause.
Longer this time.
Heavy with something I couldn't name.
"Because I have to stand here smiling while you make me socialize with your mistress."
The hallway tilted.
No.
No no no.
My hand found the wall, fingers pressing against silk wallpaper while my brain tried to process what I'd just heard.
Tried to reconcile it with the perfect image I'd carried my whole life.
The model marriage. The partnership I'd wanted to replicate.
The foundation I'd built my entire understanding of love and commitment upon.
Silence stretched inside the room.
Then my father's voice, low and dangerous. "Enough."
My mother laughed again. Uglier this time. Broken glass and bitter truth. "Barbara gets the business. Barbara gets the attention. Barbara gets the secrets."
Barbara.
The name landed like a physical blow.
Barbara Hale.
The woman merging her company with my father's. The woman who'd confronted me at the charity skate. The woman Wyatt had looked at with something cold and wounded in his eyes.
My father's voice dropped to a register I'd never heard before. Controlled fury wrapped in ice. "That was years ago."
My mother's response came fast and vicious. "You slept with her for two years."
The world stopped. Just stopped. Everything—sound, movement, breath—suspended in the space between heartbeats while my brain tried to catch up with what my ears had just processed.
My father.
Barbara.
An affair.
Two years.
I gripped the wall harder, nails digging into fabric while my stomach twisted itself into knots.
Everything Wyatt believed. Everything my father had denied. Everything he'd called a misunderstanding, a complication, ancient history that didn't matter.
All of it true.
And I'd defended my father. Stood between him and Wyatt and chosen the wrong side because I hadn't known there were sides to choose.
The hallway spun.
I couldn't breathe. My breath came fast. Too fast. Shallow gasps that didn't bring enough oxygen while my chest constricted around lungs that had forgotten how to function.
The voices continued inside the room but the words blurred into white noise. Static. Meaningless sound that couldn't penetrate the roaring in my ears.
My mind raced. Wyatt's revenge. Barbara's bitterness at the charity skate when she'd looked at him like he was a threat. My father's hatred. The way his jaw had tightened every time Wyatt's name came up. The merger. The carefully constructed narrative. The timing. The lies.
All of it. Every piece.
It connected. Snapped into focus with devastating clarity.
Wyatt didn't ruin his own marriage. My father did. My father had slept with Wyatt's wife. Destroyed his life. Watched him burn.
And then—when the scandal threatened to touch the merger, when Barbara's involvement risked exposure—my father had handed me over. Used me as a shield. Collateral to keep Wyatt quiet.
I pressed my hand against my mouth, trapping the sob that wanted to escape.
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t know what to do.