Chapter 32
Thirty-Two
River
By the time the fantasy ball arrives, I still haven’t heard from Thorn.
No calls.
No showing up at the house.
Nothing.
And now I’m wearing the emerald gown Briar chose weeks ago.
The one I secretly hoped that Thorn would see me in and then fall to his knees like one of my fictional heroes.
My stomach twists.
Because I’m starting to lose faith.
What if he never comes back?
What if he stays in the shadows and hides forever?
Sighing, I walk through the doors and enter the ballroom.
It’s objectively beautiful.
And it’s also—unfortunately—significantly less magical while my love life is imploding and my future happiness hangs in the balance.
Hundreds of lanterns are suspended from the ceiling, twinkling like floating stars.
String musicians play orchestral versions of popular songs near a massive marble staircase.
Guests swirl across the dance floor in elaborate gowns and embroidered jackets, looking like they’ve stepped directly from the pages of some of my favorite books.
Weeks ago, this was my dream.
Tonight…it just feels wrong.
Because every few minutes my gaze is drawn toward the entrance.
And every few minutes Thorn isn’t walking through the double doors, isn’t coming over to me, isn’t taking my hand and telling me he loves me.
That he wants to keep me forever.
I grit my teeth together.
Because…pathetic.
So damned pathetic.
“You need another drink,” Briar murmurs, pressing a flute of bubbling punch into my hand.
“I need my fictional man to appear like magic and sweep me off to his castle.”
“How about a penthouse?” she quips.
Heart leaping, dreams of Thorn sweeping over, taking my hand, and guiding me onto the dance floor flashing through my mind, my gaze flies to the doors again, expecting that this time I’ll see him—
But he’s not there.
“Ah, honey. Shit,” she says, squeezing my arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s good.” I shrug. “I just…” I bite the inside of my cheek and make a clumsy change of topic. “This is really beautiful. Thanks for finding it.”
Sad blue eyes on mine. “You’re welcome. I—”
“Milady,” we hear and turn to see Brooks standing there, his arm outstretched.
Wearing a matching “outfit” of velvet and ivory embroidery, a thin, silver crown perched on his head.
So much for wearing a suit.
Despite my misery, my mouth curves.
Because the other men have similarly caved—Rome in pale pink, King matching Rory in sapphire, Jean-Michel in burgundy, Jace in silver.
“You look great,” I say.
He winks then turns to Briar. “Will you give me the honor of this dance?”
Briar’s worried gaze comes to mine.
“Go,” I order.
“But—”
“Go.”
Brooks sweeps her away, and I slip into the crowd, sipping my drink.
All around me, people laugh and dance and pose for photographs.
Marie and Jace join Brooks and Briar on the dance floor.
Tiff and Jean-Michel are involved in a serious discussion about a fictional TV show.
Rory somehow joins a sword demonstration despite her baby belly—and she kicks ass at it, King grinning from the sidelines.
Rome and Chrissy watch the display, though Rome spends most of it staring at Chrissy like she hung the moon.
The entire space is full of magic and love and—
Not Thorn.
Sighing, I make a slow circle of the ballroom.
He’s not coming. He told me the truth and…now he’s what? Retreating because he saw exactly what he expected? Hiding because he’s convinced himself rejection is inevitable?
It makes me want to scream.
Instead, I sip punch and decide that I’m moving back into the penthouse.
He has to come home eventually, right?
Except, he’s a billionaire. He can go anywhere…and if the last week has shown me anything, it’s that the man is good at hiding.
“So what?” I whisper. “Am I just going to give up?”
No. I’m not.
I’m going to make the man see reason even if I have to slap him in the face with it. Even if—
The music shifts, the fast upbeat pop song shifting into a slower, romantic ballad.
More couples move toward the dance floor, and my gaze drifts to the entrance again.
Nothing.
“Dammit, Thorn,” I whisper, turning away, my chest tightening, my eyes stinging.
And suddenly it’s all too much.
The ballroom is too big.
The music is too loud.
The lights are too bright.
Setting the glass of punch down, I turn and slip through the crowd.
Past the dancers.
Past the musicians.
Onto one of the balconies that overlooks the gardens. It’s another painful reminder of the man who holds my heart, but at least it’s quieter out here, the cool night air stroking over my skin, the music fading, the yearning for my own personal fantasy not quite as intense.
For a moment, I simply breathe, willing the knot in my throat to loosen, the tears in my eyes to dry up.
I will not be crying at a fabulous fantasy ball.
“I won’t,” I whisper, blinking rapidly as I smooth my hands over the voluminous skirts of my dress.
The balcony door opens behind me and I whip around—
Not Thorn.
Just other attendees, a group of friends who have their arms looped around each other, their laughter ringing through the air.
One looks up and smiles at me. “I love your dress!”
Another points to my earrings. “Those are gorgeous.”
“And that color,” the third says, “is beautiful on you.”
Girls’ girls.
“Thank you,” I push out. “And all of your dresses are amazing too.”
We chat for a couple of moments longer and then I tell them to have the best time before I leave them to keep cooling down on the balcony.
But even as I walk back into all the splendor inside, I’m not really seeing it.
Because the truth is that I don’t care about the fantasy.
Not any longer.
I just care about making sure Thorn knows he’s mine.