56. Now
FIFTY-SIX
now
This will be the longest night of my life .
The uncharitable thought blurs through my mind as Olivia wraps her arm through mine. “Grayson, I simply adore what you’ve done with this space,” she coos, flashing her teeth. “The lighting is inspired. I’ve never seen a chandelier quite like it. And the decision to go with stone floors instead of carpet! I detest ballrooms with carpet.”
In truth, I commissioned the chandelier to be a slightly smaller version of the showpiece hanging in our lobby because I didn’t feel like designing a whole new concept for the ballroom. And I picked stone over carpet to cut back on up-keep costs.
Still, the room looks good. I’ll own that.
My team has outdone itself, decking out the enormous space in sheer white panels of gossamer that hang from the domed ceiling. The curtains lend the whole space a softness it desperately lacks and help the whole affair feel warmer and more intimate. Thousands of faux candles, grouped within or behind each panel, finish the effect.
Amir is standing beside the platform erected for the evening’s entertainment, following our every move with his eyes. Even in a black tuxedo, he looks ready to leap into action at any moment.
His arms cross over his chest, giving away his irritation. Events always make him twitchy. Little does he know, at this point, I almost wish someone would shoot me.
My attention flies from the corner beside the event stage to the Rolex partially hidden by my tuxedo’s shirtsleeves.
7:42 .
Over my date’s head, my mother casts me a disapproving look, scolding me for glancing at the time too often. Or maybe for my facial expression—which probably comes off as tense, at best. Not wanting to be rude, I try to smile as I turn to the woman pressed against me. “Have I complimented your dress?”
Her lips tighten, then smirk. “Yes.”
Well, then . I probably keep mentioning it because it’s the one true compliment I can muster. She’s dressed to kill in a low-cut, open-back evening gown. As we make our first turn around the room, she steals the attention of every other man we pass.
Rightfully so. With long black hair hanging over her bare shoulders and her lithe frame wrapped in ethereal silver, she looks hot.
I’m not blind. Just detached.
Yet, not completely indifferent to everything . Because I keep catching myself scanning the perimeter of the ballroom, searching for one particular face .
My eyes drop back to the watch on the wrist Olivia clutches.
7:43 .
Mom launches into a spirited discussion of silk versus satin. Covering for me, bless her. I see my opening and take it without a second thought.
Gently orienting my date toward my parents, I flash a charming grin. “I’m afraid my hosting duties have only just begun,” I interject, slipping out of her clutches. “In fact, the mayor just arrived and I owe him a photo-op. Mother, Father—you’ll escort Olivia to our table?” With fingers and lips as numb as my insides, I lift Olivia’s hand for a perfunctory kiss. “If you’ll excuse me.”
I catch my father’s face as I spin for the entrance—exasperated amusement at having his own social evasion tactics used against him. After all, I learned from the best. Which is also why I know how to make it seem like I’m charging off to slay a dragon while actually looping around to the bar.
I look at the person behind the counter without seeing them. “Gin. All of it.”
“A man on a mission.”
I recognize the voice even before my uncle’s hand falls on my shoulder. My hackles instantly rise as I resist the urge to shrug him off.
“Ted,” I return, taking my three-finger pour of liquor and quaffing it before anyone else notices. “Excellent work on the event. I’m fielding compliments left and right.”
My uncle—a shorter, rounder version of my father—laughs heartily. With his rounded torso and tuxedo tails, he looks like a penguin.
“Do feel free to send those my way, my boy,” he drawls. “Particularly if they come from anyone as delectable as your date. What did Mason say her name is?”
The bartender replaces the first drink with a second. This time, I manage not to knock it back in one slug. Though God knows I want to. Particularly after admitting, “Oliva Watts. ”
“Watts?” His jowls furrow along with his blond brows. “Dashwood Watts’ only daughter? The supply chain heiress?”
The urge to paw at my tie has me taking another hearty draught. “The very same. We go back to Dalton.”
He glances over at our table, where my mother and Olivia hold court over a group of other ladies, each holding flutes of champagne. Impressed, he regards me with newfound appreciation. “That’s a smart match there, my boy. Practically dynastic.”
I know all the society papers will say the same thing tomorrow. Two of the country’s wealthiest families, drawn together by their young, successful heirs.
It makes quite the story. Especially next to photos of us. As Mom likes to point out, Olivia might not be at the top of my list, but she and I take lovely photos together. Part of me suspects that’s the reason my mother called her in the first place.
Ted continues, but my focus fades while I do another sweep of the room. There are so many people—almost fifty-tables’-worth. In the sea of formalwear, I find myself searching for a hideous-floral-coat-covered buoy.
Across the teaming expanse, a flash of blonde catches my attention. In a black evening gown, the fair, petite girl stands with her back to me. Chatting with someone tall and dark… dressed in an outlandish burgundy tuxedo.
No one would wear such a thing but my best friend. Graham Everett.
Would Ella seek him out? I don’t know, but it seems possible. She always liked him. She used to claim she saw some indefinable redeeming quality in him that other women have yet to unearth.
My feet move of their own volition. Tossing my uncle a parting clap on the shoulder, I excuse myself.
It takes twice as long to cross the room the second time. I have to stop multiple times to shake hands, meet dates, and inquire after absent parties. All the while, my eye stays on the girl standing with my best friend while my blood runs hot and cold in my ears.
Finally, I get close enough to see. It isn’t Ella at all, but another curved blonde. G raham shoos her away when he spots me and closes the gap between us.
“Grayson Fucking Stryker.” His crooked grin and bleary eyes tell me that the scotch in his left hand is not his first. Or second.
Still, I’m relieved to see him.
Nothing like a ballroom full of business contacts to remind a person who their true friends are.
“Graham.” I nod after his date. “ You brought someone?”
It’s rare for him to bring his own escort. He once told me he considered taking dates to formal events like bringing your own sandwich to the buffet.
“Eh.” He shrugs, unbothered by his hypocrisy. “I figured, what the hell?”
“Feeling lazy?” I taunt.
Graham smirks around his glass. “Grayson, the days are shorter, the weather is colder, and your boy is tired . This summer wore me the fuck out. I should be at home, icing my balls. But, you know, this is your party, so. I’m here. I opted for a sure thing. Sue me.”
Amused, I sip my cocktail. “What’s her name?”
There is a chance he won’t remember. That’s happened before. Instead, he flashes a shit-eating grin. “You don’t recognize her? It’s Sarah.”
“ Sorority Sarah?” Damn, he really is tired. Circling back to women he’s already conquered. “Or Sara-With-No-H?”
Graham squints over at his date. “Hmm. Excellent question.”
“You’re fucking with me,” I decide, finishing my gin.
His thick brows rise. “Wish I was. I honestly can’t remember… I guess we’ll see if she calls me Papi later. Which reminds me—where might one find an empty office without a camera in this place?”
There’s only one. My office. And the answer is, “Absolutely not.”
Graham’s dark eyes regard me suspiciously. “You’re wound tightly this evening. Could that have anything to do with a certain brunette bombshell I saw on your arm? You didn’t tell me you were bringing Fatal Attraction.”
I grimace. “Strategic decision.”
My watch informs me that I have fifty-some minutes until I have to be on stage to make my speech. The notecard in my jacket pocket starts to burn a hole through my shirt.
He notices. “Seriously,” he says, glowering. “You good?”
Damn . I really must look freaked out for him to take note of my distress. I lower my voice, ensuring we aren’t overheard. “My father is stepping down tonight. He’s passing me the reins. In an hour.”
Most people would congratulate me. Pump my hand, kiss my ass. Instead, Graham’s frown deepens.
“And you’re losing it,” he guesses. “Typical Stryker. You know, you’re always too damn hard on yourself. It’s not like you don’t know what you’re doing. You’ve been running your family business longer than I’ve even been working at mine, and if I could get my old man to hand me Everett Alexander, I’d be doing cartwheels, not having a panic attack.”
Panic attack .
Ella.
A prickle of awareness skitters over my nape. My head snaps up, my gaze picking through the crowd around me until it lands on a group about ten yards away.
And, dear God.
There she is.
Tucked into the throng, as unassuming as can be in a plain black dress, with her hair hiding half her face. She has a drink in each hand as she hovers behind a group of executives from Idealogue, clearly not part of their circle.
I realize she must have gone to fetch a cocktail for her boyfriend, but he has yet to so much as acknowledge her effort. The champagne she got for herself is more than half-empty, so she’s been waiting behind him for some time .
An instinctive swell of anger floods over my numbness, drowning it.
Jackass . Turn around and take your fucking drink .
As I stare, Ella chews on her lower lip and looks down at her feet. She shifts on her heels, scrunching her nose. Probably missing her green clogs.
You don’t know that , my pride sneers. She’s a different person now. You don’t even know her anymore.
But some small, sure part of me knows that isn’t right. The truth strikes me while I watch her. Each pinch in her features. Every flash in her eyes. Her posture, her poise.
She’s still Ellie. And I know her better than I’ve ever known anyone else.
Loved her more than I’ve ever loved anyone else.
The truth rips at the wound I’ve fought so hard to close. Freed from the scab of apathy, my heart opens, bleeding. A week’s worth of pain pours out. Hell, three years’ worth.
God only knows what I look like, but—right in the middle of that horrible moment—she happens to glance up.
Our gazes lock and hold.
Her entire demeanor changes. Softens. Her expression melts into tenderness. It beams from her blue eyes, warming my face as they trace my features with pure, undeniable adoration.
Just like the very first day on that subway… Ella sees me. She sees everything.
She sways toward me. A second later, she looks away, searching her vicinity for a place to set the drinks down.
Is she… coming over to me?
That’s never happened before. It’s always been me chasing her down. Her, running from me and us and all the things we could have been.
But she sets the drinks on the nearest cocktail table and casts a quick, guilty look at her coworkers before spinning my way.
Our eyes meet a second time. Entranced, I wander away from Graham without so much as a word .
Over my shoulder, someone calls my name. Probably just Graham wondering what the fuck is wrong with me . My attention shifts for a fraction of a moment before I dismiss the noise altogether.
By the time I look back at her, though, Ella’s stopped cold. Fear fills every line of her lovely face, turning it into a beautiful, horrible mask of absolute dread.
“Ella,” I call out, moving faster to get to her. “Wait.”
The quicker I move, the more terrified she appears. Before I can reach her, she pivots on her heel and all but runs from the ballroom, weaving through the crowd as she dashes toward the elevators.
Something inside of me snaps.
I won’t let her run from me.
Not again.
Not here.
Not after everything she’s already put me through. I refuse to let her go without some sort of explanation, at least.
She flies into an elevator, and it closes behind her. By the time I get to the doors, Amir closes in beside me, having witnessed the entire exchange. He whips out his phone and pulls up the security feeds.
“She got in a car that’s on its way up,” he mumbles, checking the footage to see which button she pressed. His thumb stabs the call button for me, summoning another cart. “Fiftieth floor.”
“Go down to the first. She might turn the elevator back around when she gets up there,” I direct, already pressing the button for the top floor. “If she tries to leave, have her wait for me.”
I’ll be damned if Ella Callahan gets away from me again.