Chapter 24 #2
“There she is! The woman who stole our Alex’s heart.” An elderly matron swathed in enough diamonds to fund a small nation clasps my hand between her papery fingers. “My dear, you’re such a breath of fresh air. The Hawthorns have truly impeccable taste.”
“Thank you,” I manage, scanning the glittering crowd over her silver coiffure. “Have you seen Alex this evening?”
“He was talking with Cameron by the terrace doors just a few minutes ago,” she says, patting my hand. “What a dashing pair you two make. The photographs will be divine.”
I extract myself with a polite smile. More guests intercept me as I move through the crowd—a socialite whose name I should remember but don’t, and a cousin of Alex’s who looks at me with barely concealed skepticism.
Each interaction feels like wading through honey: slow, sticky, and utterly draining.
“Excuse me,” I say, weaving through clusters of laughing guests. My eyes dart from face to face, but there’s no sign of him. A waiter passes by with a tray of champagne, and I’m tempted to grab a glass to steady my nerves.
“…always knew he’d come back to her,” a woman’s hushed voice floats from near a marble column. “The Crawford-Hawthorne alliance has been in motion since childhood.”
“And the new girl?” her friend replies. “A mere detour, darling. Richard would never sanction the engagement, especially when Elena’s family boasts three generations of political clout and controls the Crawford media empire.”
I freeze, feigning interest in a floral display as I strain to overhear more.
“Did you see Elena tonight? That emerald gown was a statement—Hawthorne green, matched perfectly to the stone in Alexander’s ring.”
“The very ring he demanded back,” the first woman corrects. “Though Margaret on Richard’s board says he locked it in the family vault. Just in case.”
I spot a set of French doors at the far end, one slightly ajar. I walk toward it, sidestepping a waiter with a tray of canapés I couldn’t possibly stomach now.
A gentle breeze stirs the sheer curtain, revealing glimpses of the balcony. My hand rises to the handle, but I freeze when a soft, intimate laugh drifts through the crack.
Elena’s laugh.
I step to the side, partially hidden by the curtain.
Through the glass panels of the door, I can see them.
Alex stands with his back to me, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the night sky.
Elena faces him, moonlight catching the shimmer of her emerald dress.
They stand impossibly close. Her hand lifts, fingers brushing his cheek in a gesture so familiar it makes my stomach twist.
“Is this what you truly want, love?” Her voice carries through the night air.
“Olivia and I... we have an understanding,” Alex says, his tone betraying a hint of defensiveness that pricks at my heart.
Understanding?
“An understanding doesn’t compare to what we had,” she presses on, stepping closer to him. The moonlight glints off her hair, weaving silver threads into her brunette locks.
“Things change, Elena. I’ve changed.”
“Have you?” Elena reaches up, her hands hovering before tracing the planes of Alex’s face.
I can’t breathe. Swallowing the lump in my throat is like trying to swallow thorns, each spike lodging deeper with the realization that whatever is between Alex and me, real or imagined, is slipping away.
The world dims as Elena’s lips part and drift toward Alex’s in slow motion. My heart screams in denial. I stumble back from the doorway, vision blurring with unshed tears, and my elbow clips a tray. Glasses shatter on the floor.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper to the startled waiter, crimson with shame as heads turn toward us. Any moment now, the balcony door will open, and Alex will catch me here—spying, weeping, causing a scene at his family’s event.
I can’t face him. Not now. Not with Elena’s perfume still clinging to my skin and strangers’ whispers in my ears.
I push through the crowd, no longer caring about the polite smiles and formal goodbyes expected of a Hawthorne fiancée. I grab my jacket from the coat check and head straight for the exit, steering clear of the grand ballroom where photographers linger.
All I can think is: get out, get out, get out.
“Ms. Jackson,” the valet greets me. “Would you like me to call for Mr. Hawthorne’s car?”
“Yes,” I say, then hesitate. “No—I mean, yes to the car, but don’t inform Mr. Hawthorne.” I press a folded bill into his hand. “Please.”
He gives me a knowing nod and radios quietly. Minutes later, a sleek black sedan rounds the drive. The driver opens the door with practiced courtesy.
“Where to, Ms. Carter?” he asks.
“To my apartment, please.”
Thank God I haven’t moved into Alexander’s place yet.
As the car pulls away from the hotel, I watch its lights grow smaller in the rear window. Celebrations are continuing unabated, as though my world hasn’t just flipped upside down. Only once we pass through the iron gates do I let silent, scorching tears slip down my cheeks.
I clench my fists, the cool metal of the engagement ring cutting into my skin. The driver glances at me in the mirror.
“Are you all right, Miss?”
I force a smile that feels more like a grimace. “I’m fine, thank you.”
We wind through the familiar streets of Empire Heights, and I replay every choice that led me here: the arranged marriage, the sham engagement, the feelings I’d convinced myself were real.
It all seems like a cruel joke now. Of course, Alexander Hawthorne wouldn’t really care about me—our relationship is only for appearances. I was being silly thinking otherwise.
The car halts outside my building.
“Thank you,” I whisper, opening the door. “Have a nice evening.”
Inside the lobby, I hurry to the elevator. The slow ride up feels endless; the soft music does nothing to calm my nerves. At my door, my hands tremble as I fumble with the keys. I step in, kick off my heels, letting them clatter against the hardwood floor.
My phone buzzes incessantly, and Alexander’s name flashes on the screen, but I can’t bring myself to answer. What would I even say?
I collapse onto the plush sofa. The emptiness of the apartment is deafening.
Shower , I decide. I need a shower.
In the bathroom, I twist off the engagement ring, letting it clatter against the marble countertop. The zipper of my gown sticks halfway down, and I yank until I hear the fabric tear. I don’t care. Under the shower’s scalding stream, I press my forehead against the cool tile.
“You bastard,” I whisper as hot water mingles with salt tears on my lips. My shoulders gradually loosen as steam billows around me.
From the start, I knew I was weaving a web of lies for Tiffany’s sake. But somewhere between fake smiles and real kisses, I forgot it was all pretend. Now, I wonder if this has been the biggest mistake of my life.