Chapter 41
Inside, the venue was all marble and crystal and money.
The ballroom stretched out like something from a different world—vaulted ceilings, chandeliers dripping light, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
Servers in black moved through the crowd with trays of champagne and whatever expensive liquor was sponsoring this thing.
The air smelled like perfume and ambition.
No cameras. No paparazzi. Just wealth and power dressed up in tuxedos and gowns.
I stayed close to Andrew as we moved into the room. His hand had left mine the second we stepped inside—not pulling away, just. . . releasing. Professional distance. But I could still feel the ghost of it, the weight of his palm against mine.
The room was packed. I scanned faces, trying to orient myself. Wardens players clustered near the bar, Sentinels players on the opposite side, blue accents on their tuxedos making them easy to spot. Teams didn’t mix at events like this.
Then I saw Brandon Archibald.
He was standing near a column, champagne in hand, laughing at something someone said.
Our eyes met across the room.
He raised his glass slightly. A toast. Or a threat. Hard to tell.
But that’s when I saw who Archibald was talking to.
Dark hair. Perfect smile.
Ben.
Everything—the music, the conversations, the clinking glasses—all of it just seemed to stop. My vision tunneled. All I could see was Ben, standing there like he had every right to exist in the same space as me.
“Archibald,” Andrew said, following my gaze. “That motherfucker.” He paused. “Wait—is that the guy from that shitty movie?”
I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.
“That movie. The one we watched.” Andrew was still looking. “The spy thing. God-awful dialogue. Explosions every five minutes. That’s him, right?”
Ben. He was talking about Ben.
“Yeah,” I managed, my voice not quite steady. “That’s him.”
Andrew looked over at me. Really looked at me. And I watched his expression change, the casual annoyance shifting into something sharper, more dangerous, as he clocked the tension in my shoulders, the way I’d gone rigid, the fact that I was staring at Ben like I was seeing a ghost.
His body language changed. He went from relaxed to coiled in half a second.
“Matthew.” His voice dropped, went flat and deadly calm. “Is he someone I need to murder?”
Before I could answer, someone called Andrew’s name. A woman in an expensive dress, gesturing toward a setup near the windows—lights, backdrop, bottles of whatever vodka or whiskey was footing the bill for tonight.
“Mr. Knox, we’re ready for you.”
Andrew looked at me. “We’re talking about this later.”
“I was already planning on it.”
Something shifted in his expression. Recognition. Understanding. Like he’d just put together a piece of a puzzle he’d been working on for weeks.
Andrew’s eyes searched my face for a long moment, and then he nodded.
“Good,” he said.
Then he walked toward the photo setup, leaving me standing there.
My brain started doing the thing it did—cataloging exits, calculating risks, mapping out where Ben was in relation to me. He was still talking to Archibald near that column, twenty feet away, maybe less. If I stayed near the bar, kept to the perimeter, avoided—
No.
Fuck that.
I was done hiding. Done letting Benjamin Harroway take up space in my head. He was here, sure, but so was I. And I was with my boyfriend Andrew fucking Knox. I had a job. I had a future. I had people who actually gave a shit about me.
Ben was just some actor with a good publicist and a mediocre filmography.
I didn’t owe him my fear. Didn’t owe him anything.
I was going to walk right past him if I had to. Wouldn’t even look at him. He didn’t deserve my time or my acknowledgment or a single second of my attention.
I headed toward the bar, shoulders back, jaw set.
The bartender asked what I wanted. I ordered water, because I needed something to do with my hands and alcohol seemed like a bad idea right now. The bartender slid the glass across to me, and I took it, already planning my next move.
I would find a spot where I could see Andrew. Wait out the photo ops. Leave as soon as—
“Matthew.”
I froze.
That voice. The kind of voice that had convinced producers to give him lead roles, convinced audiences he was a hero, convinced me I was the problem.
I turned.
Ben was standing less than two feet away, champagne glass in hand, smiling like we were old friends.
He stepped closer. Too close. “You look good.”
Up close, the cracks were more obvious. His eyes were too bright. His movements too loose. He’d always been a drinker—champagne at premieres, wine at dinners—but this was different. This was messy.
“Thanks,” I said.
“I saw the pictures.” He took a sip of his champagne. “You and the hockey player. Andrew Knox, right? That’s. . . unexpected.”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Of course, of course.” He waved a hand, nearly sloshing his drink. “I’m not judging. I’m happy for you. Really. You deserve—” He laughed, sudden and sharp. “Well. You deserve someone.”
His voice was getting louder. A couple heads nearby turned.
“Lower your voice.”
“What?” Ben leaned closer, blinking like he hadn’t quite caught the words. “I’m just saying—”
“I don’t want to talk about this here.” My pulse was loud in my ears. Andrew was somewhere in this room. So were half the Wardens’ front office, sponsors, media. “I think you should go.”
“God, it’s good to see you,” he said, as if I hadn’t said anything at all. He laughed, but it came out too loud.
His pupils were blown. His movements just a beat behind his thoughts. I’d seen this version of him before. Too many times.
“Ben,” I said, more sharply. “You’re drawing attention.”
That seemed to land. Sort of.
I glanced around again, my chest tightening. Someone from PR was nearby. I could feel it—eyes flicking our way, curiosity sharpening.
“Let’s go somewhere quieter,” I said. “Now.”
“What?” He frowned, then grinned, that familiar, devastating smile snapping into place like a switch had flipped. “Oh. Yeah. Sure. Good idea.”
I didn’t give him time to change his mind.
I guided him toward the back of the ballroom, my hand light on his arm but firm. He stumbled slightly, caught himself, laughed it off. The noise of the party faded as we reached the hallway near the restrooms—dim, quiet, blessedly empty.
I stopped near a door marked Staff Only and turned to face him.
Ben set his champagne glass down on a nearby table with exaggerated care. Then he looked at me. Really looked at me.
For a second, something real crossed his face. Regret, maybe. Or loneliness. Or just the hollow space where those things should’ve lived.
“I saw the pictures,” he said again, quieter now. “Are you happy?”
The question caught me off guard. “What?”
“I saw you walk in. With him. Are you happy?”
I didn’t answer.
Ben stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the champagne on his breath, the expensive cologne he always wore. “You were good with me, Matthew. You know that, right? You were so good. You believed in me. You knew how to take care of things. How to make everything easier.”
“That was my job.”
“I miss that.” His voice was soft now. Almost vulnerable. “I miss having someone who understood. Who knew what I needed before I even asked. My number one fan.”
And just like that, I saw it.
The truth I’d been avoiding for years.
Ben didn’t miss me. He missed being worshipped. He missed having someone to clean up his messes, to handle his problems, to make him feel like a god while he destroyed them piece by piece.
“You don’t miss me,” I said.
“What?”
“You miss having someone to take care of you. To tell you you’re perfect. To take the fall when things go wrong.” My voice was getting louder. “That’s what you miss.”
Ben frowned. “That’s not—”
“It is.” I felt anger building in my chest. Real anger. Not panic, not fear, just pure fucking frustration. “You don’t give a shit about me, Ben. You never did. You just wanted someone you could use and then throw away when it was convenient.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Fair?” I laughed. It came out bitter. “You let me take the fall for your drugs. You made me sign an NDA so I couldn’t defend myself. You walked away with your reputation intact while I couldn’t get a job for years. Years, Ben.”
“I didn’t make you do anything.” His voice was rising now. “You volunteered. You said you’d handle it.”
“Because you made me think I owed you! Because you spent years making me think I was the problem, that I was the one who needed to be fixed!”
“Matt—”
“I’m done with this.” I started to move past him. “I’m done with you.”
His hand shot out and grabbed my arm. “Wait.”
“Let go.”
“I’m sorry.” He pulled me back. “I’m sorry, okay? I fucked up. I know I did. But we were good together, weren’t we? We could be again.”
“Are you serious right now?”
“Yes.” His eyes were wild. Desperate. “You were the best thing I had, Matt. You made everything better. And I ruined it, I know. But we could—”
“No.”
“Matt, please—”
“No.” I yanked my arm free. “I’m not doing this. I’m not going back to being your assistant or your boyfriend or whatever the fuck you think I was. I’m done.”
Ben’s face changed. The desperation flickered out, replaced by something uglier. Something entitled. “You think that hockey player’s any different? You think he actually cares about you?”
“That’s not your business.”
“He’s using you too. They all do. You’re good at being used, Matthew. It’s what you do.”
For a second, I wanted to hit him. My hand actually curled into a fist. But then I saw the way his pupils were too wide, too glassy. The slight sway in his stance. The sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the air conditioning.
He was fucked up. Drunk or high or both.
And this was too public. Too many people with cameras. Too many witnesses.
He wasn’t worth it.
I took a step back. "We’re done here."
Ben didn’t.
That’s when I realized I’d underestimated him, not the anger, not the entitlement, but the desperation. The way he was vibrating with it, like a live wire with nowhere to ground.
Ben moved fast. Grabbed me. Shoved me back against the wall.
And kissed me.
His mouth was on mine before I could process what was happening. His hands on my shoulders, pinning me against the wall, his body pressed too close.
I froze.
For one horrible second, I was back in that hotel room in New York. Back in the version of myself that let things happen because fighting seemed harder than just enduring.
But only for a second.
Then I remembered.
I wasn’t that person anymore.