Chapter Twenty Three
The Gala
Sierra
Ican tell myself I’m fine right up until the moment I step out of the car and the cold air hits my lungs like a warning.
The building is lit up like it’s hosting royalty. Warm light spilling through tall glass doors, valet line moving with practiced ease, a stream of people in black tie and long gowns flowing toward the entrance like they’re headed somewhere celebratory instead of somewhere sharp.
It’s the biggest donor gala of the year. That’s what my mother calls it, every time, like the word biggest is supposed to mean something to me beyond: show up, smile, don’t embarrass us.
I smooth my hands down the sides of my dress anyway.
Deep purple. Floor length. The kind of fabric that looks expensive and feels like it’s trying to choke me by association.
I wore my hair up because my mother hates it when it’s down.
I wear earrings I don’t love because she picked them out and made a comment about my ‘tired face’ when I tried to say no.
Everything about this is a performance. Even the way I breathe.
My father walks ahead like he’s escorting me to my own sentencing. My mother hooks her arm through mine with a grip that reads affectionate to anyone watching and feels like ownership to me.
“Remember,” she says, voice light, smile already set in place. “Tonight is important.”
Tonight is always important. It’s always some dinner, some fundraiser, some event where their friends are watching, and my job is to be proof that their family is still polished enough to be admired.
“I know,” I say.
My mother’s nails press into my skin on my arm. “And don’t start with me tonight. Not here.”
I keep my face neutral. I keep my mouth closed and my eyes forward.
I can do that. I’ve done it my whole life.
The entrance is elegant, a check-in table with staff in matching attire, a string quartet playing near the stairs, rows of floral arrangements that probably cost more than my rent. People laugh too loudly, and hug too tightly, talk about donations like it's a sport.
My mother’s smile widens as soon as we cross the threshold. “Linda!” she sings, as if she hasn’t spent the last three days complaining about Linda’s hair extensions and the way she flirts with men half her age.
She glides toward a group of women in glittering gowns, and my father falls into step beside her like he’s been trained for this. And I’m pulled along because that’s what I am. An accessory to the name, the brand.
I shake hands. I accept compliments and condolences on my marriage. I respond with the correct amount of warmth and humility. I laugh at jokes I don’t think are funny. I pretend I’m not counting the minutes until I can disappear into a bathroom stall and breathe.
The room is enormous, transformed into something that feels like a movie set. Round tables draped in white. A stage at the far end with a podium and screens showing the university crest.
And I tell myself I can make it through this.
I tell myself I can. Then I see Sarah.
She’s across the room, stepping through the crowd with that composed posture she wears like armor.
She looks beautiful, of course she does, because she is.
It’s effortless on her, the way she can make formal look like it was made for her specifically.
A black dress that fits like confidence, hair styled down in loose waves, and earrings that catch the light when she turns her head.
She’s with someone and my stomach drops so fast I swear I feel it in my knees.
Jace.
He’s at her side in a dark suit, broad shoulders, calm expression, one hand resting lightly at the small of her back as he guides her through the crowd. Not possessive or performative. Just… steady. Like being close to her is natural. Like this is how it should have always been
My throat tightens.
He looks good with her.
The thought lands hard, not because it surprises me, but because I’ve been choosing not to look at it too closely.
Sarah pauses when someone approaches them, and Jace turns his head, a polite smile already in place as he greets whoever it is. He’s perfect at this too. Of course he is. He’s Coach Prescott. He knows the donors. He knows how to be the man people want him to be.
And Sarah stands there beside him like she fits.
Like she belongs there.
Like she belongs with him.
My hands go cold.
Not because it surprises me.
Because this is how they were always meant to look.
I don’t even realize I’ve stopped walking until my mother’s grip tightens.
“Don’t stare,” she hisses under her breath, smiling brightly at a man who just walked up. “You’ll embarrass me.”
I blink hard and force my eyes away.
The man introduces himself and my mother does her whole routine, talking about giving, about legacy, about how much the university means to ‘our family.’ My father nods at the appropriate moments, checking his watch like he’s counting down until he can escape.
I stand there and nod too, my brain splitting in half.
Half of me is present, performing.
The other half is locked on Sarah and Jace, watching the way she tilts her head to listen, the way his gaze drops briefly to her mouth and then snaps away like he catches himself.
There’s a tension there. Not loud or obvious. But something I know is caused by me. My pulse picks up, sharp and fast, and I know I need air.
I slip my arm free from my mother’s and take a small step back. “I’m going to find the restroom.”
My mother doesn’t turn her head. She keeps smiling at the man in front of her. “Don’t take long.”
My father doesn’t look at me.
I walk away with my spine straight and my face neutral, like I’m not falling apart under the surface.
The hallway outside the ballroom is quieter, carpeted, dimmer. The noise of the gala muffles behind heavy doors. I take one deep breath, then another, and it still doesn’t feel like enough.
I move toward the restrooms, but I don’t go inside. I stop in the small foyer near the coat check, hands braced on the edge of a table, staring at a framed photo of the campus.
The noise from the ballroom hums behind me, muted but relentless. Laughter. Glasses clinking. People who believe tonight is exactly what it’s supposed to be.
My chest tightens, sharp and sudden. Not nerves. Not guilt. The realization that if I stay here one more minute pretending I can get through this, I’m going to break in a way I won’t be able to hide.
I can’t do this.
I pull my phone out of my clutch, fingers steady now in a way they haven’t been all night.
I need Griff.
Me: I can’t do this anymore.
Me: I need you.
Me: Please come get me.
I hit send and my breath comes out slowly, controlled.
I tell myself I only need to get through the half an hour, until Griff gets here.
Then I can figure out the rest.
I can plan.
I can control the timing.
I can choose the right moment to tell Jace then Knox.
I can find the words that make it less ugly.
I can—
“What is taking you so long?”
My mother’s voice slices through the hallway like a blade.
I stiffen.
She’s behind me, heels clicking sharp against the carpet. Her smile is gone. Her face is tight, eyes narrowed like she’s caught me committing a crime.
“Are you hiding?” she asks, glancing around like she expects someone to jump out and accuse her of raising a failure. “Is that what you’re doing?”
“I needed a minute,” I say carefully.
Her laugh is quiet and venomous. “A minute for what? To compose yourself so you don’t ruin the night for everyone?”
“I’m not ruining anything.”
“You already have,” she snaps, stepping closer. Her voice stays low, but her eyes are bright with something cruel. “Do you know how many people ask me about you? About why you couldn’t make it work? About why your marriage fell apart when everything was handed to you?”
My throat tightens.
Don’t react. Don’t react. Don’t react.
“I’m here,” I say. “I showed up. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“I wanted you here because it’s your duty,” she says, her tone sharpening. “Not so you could act like this was another thing you couldn’t manage to hold together.”
“I’m doing what you asked.”
“That’s the problem,” she says, lips curling. “You always do what you’re asked, and then you act like a martyr about it. You want everyone to feel sorry for you.”
My hands clench around the clutch. The words land like a slap. “I don’t.”
“You do,” she insists. “You always have. You make messes and then you stand in the middle of them like you’re the victim.”
“Can we not do this here?” I ask, my voice low.
Her eyes flash. “Here is exactly where we do it. Because here is where you remember how to behave.”
Something in me snaps.
I turn away from her and walk straight back into the ballroom, heels clicking sharp against the floor, the noise and light swallowing me whole. I can feel her follow, feel her at my back as the crowd closes in again.
I turn and stare at her, and my skin feels too tight.
My mother moves closer, lowering her voice further. “Do you see her?”
Her gaze cuts across the room, sharp and deliberate.
Sarah.
“She’s here,” my mother says, satisfied. “She’s doing what she’s supposed to do. She’s supporting him, looking perfect, making the right impression. That’s what a woman does when she wants people to respect her. That should be you, not her.”
My stomach twists.
“And you,” she continues, “are pouting like a child while your husband is in there representing the university without you.”
My jaw tightens. “He’s my ex-husband,” I say, sharp enough that it cuts.
Her mouth presses into a thin line, like the correction annoys her more than the mistake.
“You know what I mean,” she says.
“I do,” I answer, my voice tight. “And that’s exactly the problem.”
“You’re embarrassing,” she says bluntly. “Do you know how lucky you are? Do you understand what you had? A man like Jace, a marriage that fixed what you tarnished, a life you didn’t deserve after the way you behaved.”
My vision blurs at the edges. “Stop,” I whisper.