8. Dean
Dean
Dean watched from the stage as Fiona's chair pushed back from the table. Even from this distance, he could see the rigid set of her shoulders, the too-careful way she smoothed her dress before walking toward the back of the hall.
Shit.
Someone was still talking beside him, but Dean's focus had narrowed to a pinpoint. Fiona's retreating figure. The way she held herself like she was made of glass.
Fuck, Dean thought, his jaw clenching as he maintained his stage smile. Why did his director have to run his mouth like that?
The account wasn't supposed to be public knowledge. Well, not this public. Sure, people in the industry followed it, but it was supposed to stay in their circle. Discrete. Professional networking with a personal twist.
It wasn't that bad. The account was affectionate . Funny. People loved her—that was the whole point. She was charming in her simplicity, endearing in her naivety. The comments that called her sweet far outweighed anything mean.
He watched her skirt around the edge of the room and disappear into the ladies’ room.
Dean's smile felt like it was carved from stone as the applause started up again. Someone was shaking his hand. Someone else was asking about photo ops.
She'd been smiling at him minutes ago. Glowing.
Now she couldn't even look at him.
All he wanted was to follow her. To wrap his arms around her in that way that always made her melt against him, her face tucked into his neck like he was home. To smooth her hair and whisper that he loved her, that she was perfect, that none of this mattered.
He wanted to take her home and show her exactly how much he adored every ridiculous, beautiful thing about her. Make her forget whatever she'd seen, whatever had put that terrible stillness in her shoulders.
But for now he had an award to accept and a room full of people expecting him to play his part.
He stepped forward for another handshake, his public face sliding back into place, already planning how he'd make this right.