Chapter 31 Keira
KEIRA
The Fairmont Mandarin Plaza is probably the most luxurious hotel in Boston.
I swear the glass shines a little brighter here, like even the building knows its worth.
Shadowharbor struck some kind of deal with the owners; this will be their permanent annual venue, or so my assistant told me this morning while I was still trying to process waking up alone.
No note. No explanation. Just cold sheets and the faint impression of where Octavian's body had been pressed against mine hours before.
I was going to rip into him. Had the whole speech prepared in my head, complete with hand gestures and that particular tone I use when I'm royally pissed off but trying to maintain some semblance of composure.
But he disarmed me completely by slipping a velvet box into my hands.
Inside was a bracelet so beautiful I forgot how to be mad. It was old-school 1920s vintage-styled glamour mixed with sleek modern edges, delicate platinum links catching the light as it slid around my wrist like it had always belonged there.
I told him how beautiful it looked, and he kissed my temple so gently I felt it all the way down to my toes.
"It's only half as beautiful as you," he'd said against my skin.
I'd melted. Damn him.
So yes, I forgave him. For now.
His hand grips my thigh in the car, warm and possessive, and I let it stay there even though part of me wants to swat it away just to prove I'm still capable of independence.
But if he pulls anything else tonight, I swear I'll—
"So this is Shadowharbor's gala, huh?" Octavian's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts.
I glance at him, taking in the sharp lines of his suit, the way his dark eyes scan everything. Even dressed like Boston royalty, he can't turn off that predator awareness.
"Yep," I say, smiling. "Try not to faint if you see a celebrity or two."
His mouth curves, just barely. "I'll do my best."
The car slows, and valets in matching burgundy vests swarm us like ants. One opens my door, hand extended, but Octavian puts a stop to that quickly by pushing his hand out of the way and helps me out instead.
The red carpet stretches before us, velvet and ridiculous, like we're at a movie premiere instead of a charity event. Photographers cluster behind barriers, cameras clicking in rapid succession, the flash of bulbs turning the night into artificial daylight.
We pause for photos in front of a Shadowharbor backdrop like we're the celebrities tonight. I keep my smile poised and effortless. Octavian's hand never leaves my lower back.
A chill cuts through my dress, and I shiver slightly. Massachusetts in November doesn't give a damn how beautiful your gown is.
Octavian leans down, his breath warm against my ear. "I still wish you'd let me give you my jacket."
"It would ruin the look," I whisper back, keeping my smile fixed for the cameras. "You can give it to me after the photos."
"Promise me."
"Fine. But only after I've made my rounds."
His jaw tightens, but he doesn't argue.
We finally make it inside, and the hotel lobby opens up like a cathedral. Soaring ceilings, chandeliers, and marble floors so polished I can see my reflection. The air smells like expensive perfume and champagne and is filled with lively chatter.
A woman in a sleek black dress with a headset and an overzealous smile approaches.
"Ms. Killaney," she says warmly, "thank you for joining us. As a valued partner, you have full VIP access tonight. You'll find the VIP lounges down that corridor. Should you need anything, don't hesitate."
She gestures toward a hallway lined with security, then vanishes to greet the next arrival before I can respond.
"VIP. Fancy," Octavian says beside me, and I catch the hint of amusement in his voice.
I glance up at him, unable to stop my smirk. "Stick with me. I've got access all over this town."
It slips out playful, easy, like we've been doing this for years. Like I haven't spent half my adult life keeping people at arm's length and the other half proving I don't need anyone.
I hope I don't scare him off.
Thankfully, he laughs under his breath, and I feel a flicker of something warm settle under my ribs.
I spot a few familiar faces across the room, donors I've schmoozed a hundred times, old partners from previous foundation collaborations. Without thinking, I grab Octavian's hand.
"Come on."
We move through the crowd, weaving between clusters of evening gowns and tuxedos, and it takes me a full thirty seconds to realize I'm still holding his hand. I pause mid-step, look down at our fingers entwined, then up at his face.
"Oh. I didn't mean—" I start to let go, suddenly self-conscious, but his grip tightens.
"I like holding your hand," he says, voice low enough that only I can hear. "We can do that tonight. It plays the part."
He leans in, brushing his lips against my cheek. "But just so you know, I'm not acting. If it were up to me, I'd never let this hand go."
My heart does something complicated and embarrassing in my chest. Heat floods my face, and I look up at him, probably blushing like a goddamn teenager. He smiles, a real smile, not that controlled half-curve he usually gives, and I nearly forget how to breathe.
We keep walking.
The first group we encounter is a married couple I've known for years. Major donors to the Trust, old Boston money that stretches back to the Mayflower or some such nonsense. The wife, Constance, air-kisses both my cheeks.
"Keira, darling, you look absolutely stunning. And who is this tall drink of water?"
"Thank you. This here is…" I hesitate for half a second, then commit. "My boyfriend, Octavian."
If we're playing the part, let's play it.
The word feels strange on my tongue. Boyfriend. Like that explains whatever the hell we did on my kitchen counter this morning.
But Octavian doesn't miss a beat. He shakes the husband's hand and nods politely at Constance.
"A pleasure," he says.
"Oh, do I detect a slight accent?" Constance asks. "Where are you from?"
"Romania."
"Oh, Romania," Constance gushes. "How exotic."
Octavian shrugs, unsure how to respond.
The conversation changes, and we chat for a few minutes about nothing important before moving on.
Before I know it, I've slipped into what I always do: work the room, make connections, remember names and faces and the little details that make people feel seen, all with Octavian at my side. It just feels so right.
From group to group, I introduce him as my boyfriend again and again, and each time it gets easier, feels more natural. People smile, shake his hand, make small talk. A few of the women eye him, and I find myself pressing closer to his side, staking my claim.
As we step away from a particularly tedious conversation about stock portfolios, Octavian leans in. "Want a drink?"
"Champagne," I say immediately.
"Be right back."
He walks off toward one of the stationed bars, and I watch him go, admiring how sexy it is that he looks like a dark angel in a designer suit.
Almost immediately, a small group of donors I recognize from previous events approaches me, and I slip back into conversation mode.
We're discussing the Trust's upcoming winter initiatives when I realize I'm cold again, arms breaking out in goosebumps despite the body heat of hundreds of people packed into the space.
One of the men, Jerry something, I think, notices. He starts to shrug off his jacket, reaching toward me with that particular brand of chivalry that always feels vaguely condescending.
"Oh, here, let me—"
He freezes mid-motion, eyes going wide.
"Sorry, sir," he says quickly, pulling back like he's been burned.
I turn to find Octavian standing directly behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body. He places his jacket around my shoulders, then hands me a flute of champagne.
Gerald mumbles an excuse and retreats into the crowd. The others follow shortly after, suddenly remembering urgent conversations they need to have elsewhere.
I pull Octavian's jacket tighter around myself, breathing in the scent of him, and turn to look up at him.
"Jealous?"
"No," he says, his voice dark. "You just don't get to wear another man's jacket anymore."
My cheeks burn, and my stomach flips. I take a sip of champagne to cover the heat rising in my face.
"Hey, listen…" I start, then hesitate. "I don't want to come off harsh or ruin the night, especially after you gave me this bracelet." I hold up my wrist, letting the diamonds catch the light. "But I can't shake something."
His eyes narrow. "Shake what?"
I take another sip of champagne.
"Why you left." The words spill out before I can stop them, before I can talk myself out of this conversation. "This morning. I woke up and you were gone. No note, no text. Just… gone. Why?"
He stiffens.
"Oh. That."
"Yeah, that."
He glances around, clearly not thrilled about having this discussion in the middle of a crowded gala. "Can we talk about this later?"
I shake my head. "No. Because if we don't, I'll overthink it and spiral and come up with a hundred reasons why you left and get more upset with each one."
I can see him weighing his options, his mind running through scenarios, but I don't care. I need to know.
"Are you mad?" he asks finally.
"No. But I'm this close to believing you just fucked me and bailed."
The crude language makes a woman passing nearby glance over sharply, but I ignore her. Octavian's jaw tightens, muscles jumping beneath his skin.
"Shit, Keira, no. It's not like that."
"Then what is it? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you gave me incredible sex, then ran away and showed up with jewelry acting like nothing happened."
"Incredible, huh?" he asks.
"Octavian! I'm being serious here."
"Fine. Like I said, it's not like that."
"Then tell me what it is."
He exhales, long and slow, and moves closer.
"Fine. You want to know how I feel?"
"Obviously."
"I can't get enough of you. If I didn't leave your bed, I never would have. I would have kept you there all day. Owned you. Kept you. Made you mine in every way that matters."
I gasp quietly.
"I didn't leave because it didn't matter," he says. "I left because it mattered too much. You got under my skin. I can't think. I can't breathe right. You've fucked up everything in me that was neat and controlled, and I don't know what to do about it."
My heart hammers against my ribs. I open my mouth to respond, tell him to join the club because that's how I'm feeling, when another voice cuts in.
"Excuse me."
We both turn, and a woman steps forward, elegant and polished. She's wearing a fitted black pantsuit, and her blonde hair is pulled back in a tightly combed ponytail.
Her smile is anything but warm.
"Keira Killaney?" she says. "I'm Elizabeth Carter, new Director of Outreach for Shadowharbor."
I shift automatically into public mode, though my pulse is still racing from Octavian's confession. "Yes, hi," I extend my hand. "Pleasure to meet you."
"Likewise," she says, shaking my hand. "I've heard amazing things about your foundation. The Killaney Family Trust is doing really meaningful work."
"Thank you. We always try to give back."
Octavian's hand wraps around my waist, and Elizabeth's eyes flick to him briefly, then back to me.
"I think you'll find our upcoming initiatives will really help define the city," she says, and something about the way she says it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
I nod politely, keeping my expression neutral. "Well, we're always here to help."
Her smile widens, but it doesn't reach her eyes. It's like a snake trying on a human face, mimicking emotion without understanding it.
She leans in slightly, dropping her voice. "We really are building something beautiful, Ms. Killaney. For the true sons and daughters of Boston."
My smile falters.
True sons and daughters. The phrasing is deliberate, almost accusatory. Like the Killaneys, Irish immigrants who clawed their way to power, don't count because our methods were different. Like my line hasn't bled for this city.
I go stiff, and Octavian must sense it as his hand presses harder against my waist like he's afraid I'm going to charge her.
"As a matter of fact," Elizabeth continues, "why don't I show you something? We have a private exhibit upstairs. Very exclusive. I think you'll find it enlightening."
Every instinct I have screams danger. This is a trap. This is exactly the kind of situation Callum and Declan warned me about.
But it's also exactly why I'm here.
I glance at Octavian, and he gives me the tiniest shake of his head.
I ignore it and turn back to Elizabeth.
"We'd love to," I say, smile bright and false. "Lead the way."