SIXTY-EIGHT
Gigi
I’m roped into attending another charity gala. I’m always happy to spend an evening with the less fortunate, but everything seems different now. My days consist of trying to get back to the place I was at before the incident with Harry, but no matter how hard I try, I just can’t shake the feeling of him.
I’m yet to hear about his condition, and whoever I ask chooses to avoid me like the plague, not wanting to be associated with me anymore.
Everyone I know is at the gala tonight. Poppy. Richard. Andy. Hudson is probably around here somewhere too – amongst so many others. But there is someone missing. Harry. If he were here, I’d feel that strange mechanical pull towards him that I experience every time .
Women are in their fancy ballgowns, and men are in their tuxedos.
They laugh.
They cheer.
They clink glasses, and I just stare at nothing.
It’s unfathomable to me how so many people can be oblivious when you’re hurting so hard on the inside.
Seamstresses demanded I wear a bright, cheerful colour this evening – pink, yellow, baby-blue – but it didn’t feel fitting for my mood. I chose black as if it would represent how I’m feeling on the inside. No one has approached me all evening, which probably means the black gown is scaring them off. Or perhaps that’s just me nowadays.
Eager to make amends, I spot Andy near the bar, pick up the front of my gown, and head towards him. As if he can sense my approach, he throws back the rest of his drink and walks off into the sea of people.
I reach the bar, white-knuckling the wood as I release a heavy sigh.
“Gigi!” Richard calls.
Sighing, I squeeze my eyes shut. “Coming!”
I’ve danced with so many men this evening that I’m starting to smell like the opposite sex. Expensive cologne practically seeps out of my pores, and my feet hurt. I have blisters on my toes and on the balls of my feet.
I’m passed from man to man as if I’m in a brothel. Song after song plays through violins, and I don’t have a chance to catch my breath or even rest my feet. I’m with each man for approximately three minutes before the song changes and I’m swung into another’s arms. It’s like speed-dating – billionaire edition.
The current song comes to an end and I use the opening as my opportunity to escape from the charitable benefactor. Approaching a waitress at the side of the dance floor, I grab one of the closest drinks and chuck it down my throat without so much as asking what it is. She watches me in surprise but doesn’t utter a word as I slam the glass down onto her tray and pick up another.
Champagne , I think as I pour the next glass down my throat.
“Gigi …”
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, catching the excess liquid on my skin, as I meet Richard’s disapproving glare.
I’m embarrassing him.
He’s standing alone with a glass of Jack Daniels in hand, his brows downturned in disapproval, boasting the kind of stern look a father would give to a child when they’ve been caught red-handed.
“What can I do for you?” I gaze back down at my half-filled glass.
“Walk with me.”
“I’m fine, really—”
“It wasn’t a question.”
I chug down the remainder of my drink and set the glass back down on the tray. Smiling at the waitress in thanks, I join Richard’s side as he walks us to the corner of the room – the perfect vantage point. We stand with our backs to the wall, hundreds of guests socialising in front of us. They laugh and act like they don’t have a care in the world. Why would they? They’ve got more money than sense. Whoever said money can’t buy happiness is a fucking liar.
“You’re angry about something,” he states.
I fight the urge to look at him, keeping my eyes forwards. “Just tied up with work. You know how it is.”
“Don’t play smart with me,” he grits through his teeth, turning to me. “What do you take me for?”
I remain silent. If he chooses execution as my punishment, so be it. A bullet sounds a lot more appealing than anything else at this point. But it seems Richard’s got me right where he wants me, because his smirk grows wide even in my peripheral vision.
“It’s really a pity …” he starts, and I turn to him slowly, “that he felt he had to make the decision.”
I frown. “I’m not following.”
“Didn’t you hear?” he asks. “Harry’s leaving us.”
He finally turns to me, and it’s as if an ice pick has impaled my stomach .
A mixture of emotions threatens to choke me.
And I … I can’t breathe .
This wouldn’t have been Harry’s choice. Richard has driven him out, and it’s telling through the way his smirk overtakes his lips. He isn’t even trying to hide it.
No one gets out of the Circle unscathed. He’s punishing Harry for something.
He could kill him.
He could—
My composure threatens to crack as I ask, “Will you excuse me?”
I don’t have a chance to listen for his response since I’m already charging from the ballroom. People call out my name, but I leave without looking back, fearing I’ll cause a scene if I stay. I can feel my fists balling at the sides of my body, crescent moons slicing the skin of my palms, and it isn’t long before a thin layer of blood is pooling in them.
I throw open the double doors, most likely leaving a bloody imprint against the wood. My throat scratchy, I try to inhale.
But I’m in a spiral with no end.
I’m suffering the loss of him all over again.
With the room spinning, I catch the wall beside me.
I can’t think. I can’t muster up words other than, “I … I-I can’t breathe.” I say it again and again, a desperate plea for my body to react to what’s happening.
My mind is closing in, and it’s a struggle like I’ve never known to pull myself free. Every intake of breath feels like fresh bruises forming on my skin. Nothing works.
I’m free-falling …
I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I can’t breathe—
I claw at my chest. I rip at the fabric and tug at my corset, but it won’t budge.
Stupid fucking thing .
Stumbling down the hallway, I find myself in a kitchen. Waiters and waitresses turn to me, stunned when they see my flustered expression. I toss my head back and forth, grabbing one of the knives from the rack before storming back out.
At the nearest bathroom, I collapse inside the stalls like an old drunk, turning in the full-length mirror to catch my appearance. A roar of frustration tears up my throat as I try to rip through the thin silk.
When the blade strikes true through the ribbon I finally catch my breath. And I clutch at my chest desperately. It’s as if I can feel the organ breaking, just out of my reach, the pain washing over me so hard I’m forced to balance on the bathroom door.
Breathe, Gigi.
You need to breathe.
With my forehead resting against the wood, I catch sight of the knife still at my feet. My reflection is distorted in the blade, making it appear shattered and muddled – just like my brain.
As a thought comes to fruition I tilt my head slowly.
I could do it.
I could kill Richard.
Right now.
I’ve been aching for the opportunity. And now I have the chance at my very fingertips, a lethal weapon at my disposal. I’d cause a scene, dethroning him in front of his worshippers.
Bending down slowly, I pick up the knife and turn it thrice in hand.
Fuck it.
Holding the blade behind my back, I swing open the bathroom door and storm out. I hurry back towards the ballroom, passing guests and some of the elite on my way through. They attempt to stop me for conversation, but I rush forwards without blinking. My feet grind to a stop finally at the double doors, and I stare through the glass panel.
He’s there.
In all his glory.
Talking smack with high-profile stars and billionaire men.
The blade of the knife is in my palm now, the sight of him making my anger flourish enough that I start to grip the metal. It splits skin, tearing apart the flesh. But I feel nothing.
Except numb.
Blood is warm against my skin, pooling in my hand before rushing down my arms and collecting at my elbows, where it falls to the floor.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Keeping my hand holding the knife behind my back, my other gripping the door handle, I throw it open, destined to kill—
Hands catch my arms, desperately tugging me back from the open door.
“No!” I shout. “I need to do it!”
I don’t care who it is.
I don’t care what the repercussions are.
I’ll kill them.
I turn around quickly, prepared to strike, but the stranger grabs my elbows, disarming me. They swing me back around before I can even catch a glimpse of their face, pinning me to their front.
Despite the restraints I thrash and scream and cry and kick.
“You need to calm down.”
Hudson.
“Get off me!”
Pulling me back from the door, he insists, “You don’t want to do this. Trust me.”
My thrashes grow weaker and weaker the further he pulls me from the entrance, as if I can feel the opportunity slipping through my fingers. Blood soaks my palms and my wrists to the extent that his grip slips, and I puddle to the floor in a mess of sobs and screeches.
Hudson consoles me.
He wraps his arms around me and strokes my hair, his shirt stained with my blood.
The sobs scratch at my throat so hard it burns.
I was ready to kill anyone. Consequences be damned.