Chapter 50
“exile” - Taylor Swift ft. Bon Iver
Pierce
I’ve never wished I could skip forward in time more than I do right now.
As I tighten the bow tie around my neck, my reflection mocks me, proving just how little sleep I’ve been getting by highlighting the dark circles under my eyes—the exhaustion I can’t hide, no matter how hard I try.
Not that I’ve tried very hard. The only thing I’ve put any actual effort into lately is forgetting, and tonight, even that will be impossible.
My fingers dive into my hair before I remember that it’s already styled. Fuck it. Who cares if it looks like a mess? I rearrange the strands as best I can, then take a deep breath and head for the door. May as well rip off the fucking bandage.
The car ride to the Wesbourne Botanical Gardens passes much faster than preferred.
I briefly consider asking my driver to circle the block a few times but realize that will only delay the inevitable, so I refrain.
At some point, I’m going to have to get out and go inside, even if I’d rather watch while someone carves out my entrails with a dull knife.
As the limo slows in front of the entrance, where paparazzi flank both sides of the red carpet that has been laid out, my heart picks up speed.
And even though I’ve been telling myself this whole time that it’s from dread, I have to admit that a tiny amount of the adrenaline comes from anticipation, too.
It’s been too long since I’ve been at an event like this.
Without a girlfriend nagging me to take her places, it’s been easier to avoid them all together.
I’ve asked Hillary to decline the invitations on my behalf, and other than a raised brow the first few times, she hasn’t mentioned anything.
I know she thinks I work too much, but the truth is, if I wasn’t working, I’d be doing something much worse.
At least this way I’m contributing to society.
My car pulls to a stop in front of the red carpet, and I wait as the driver rounds to open my door.
I button my tuxedo jacket as I get out, pasting a smile on my face and waving at the nearest reporters.
The lights from the cameras are blinding, but I keep my grin in place as I approach the entrance.
Voices call out from both sides of the carpeted walk.
“Are you attending alone tonight, Mr. St. James?”
“Can you share about the effect Solace Link will have on the climate?”
“Is this the start of future collaborations between Luminara Tech and the Wilson Foundation?”
I ignore them all while keeping the smile on my face from slipping. You get good at this kind of thing when you do it every week. Even though it’s been several months since I’ve attended an event, it’s comforting to know I haven’t gotten too rusty.
Right before the double glass doors, I stop and turn so the photographers can get their shots. Kind of wish there was also a sniper in the crowd, taking aim at my heart. No such luck, though. After thirty seconds, I give one last wave before walking inside.
The lobby has been minimally decorated for tonight, because the event itself is taking inside the conservatory, located behind the main building. Small clusters of people linger around the fringes of the room, but I refuse to let myself scan them and instead head for the doors leading out back.
A brick path lined with fairy lights takes me to the conservatory, which is lit up like a beacon in the night, a soft glow spilling out of its glass walls and roof. We’re far enough from the heart of the city that you can actually see a few stars studding the sky.
I slow to the pace of the people walking ahead of me.
I’m certainly in no hurry to get inside.
The longer I can keep to the shadows, the better.
Unfortunately, even turtles eventually reach their destination, and I’m soon crossing the threshold into the venue, which has been transformed into a wonderland for tonight’s gala.
Tropical orchids hang from the ceiling, suspended in bloom, while guests in black tie mingle below, sipping champagne and murmuring softly.
Several small reflecting pools dot the room, flickering candles and lotus blooms floating on their surfaces.
The waitstaff are wearing silver-toned uniforms, giving them the appearance of water as they ripple through the crowd with trays of cocktails and citrus-glazed hors d’oeuvres.
I gratefully accept a glass from a server and toss it back in one go. It’s going to take about five more of those to reach the point where I stop caring. May as well get started.
Before I can move to find another drink, a hand claps me on the shoulder.
“Pierce,” a booming voice says, and I turn to find Lord Wilson wearing a grin the size of England. “You ready for this?”
Fuck no. He means my speech, which is written and ready to go on my phone—not the source of the dread currently pooled in the pit of my stomach. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, with a smile I don’t mean in the slightest.
Another tray of cocktails passes, and I snag one, replacing it with my empty glass. They really should have made these stronger. I force myself to go slower this time, given the man standing next to me.
“I’m confident you’ll make us all proud.
” He clinks his flute against mine, and the tinkling sound evaporates into the noise of the crowd.
Leaning in, he lowers his voice to what I assume is meant to be a whisper, but it is still about five decibels above most people’s.
“Just between us, I was hoping we’d be making an announcement of a different sort tonight. ”
I raise my brows is genuine confusion. “Were you hoping for a different outcome for Solace Link? I wasn’t aware.”
We’ve spent the entire summer rebranding our collaborative project. What was previously HavenNet is now Solace Link, with a renewed and revised mission and an even tighter marketing campaign behind it.
The rebrand wasn’t just cosmetic, either.
Our team is committed to more transparency, equality, and deeper engagement with the communities we’re hoping to serve—refugee camps, natural disaster zones, and war-torn regions—than ever before.
If Lord Wilson isn’t happy with the project, this is the first I’m hearing of it.
He still has his arm slung around me as if we’re old pals—we’re definitely not—and he throws his head back to laugh at what he mistook for a joke. “No, the project’s fine, now that we finally have something to show our donors. I was referring to something of a more . . . personal nature.”
Trepidation creeps in, turns a few times in my chest, and settles itself down for a nice nap. Mixing business with pleasure was one of the worst mistakes I ever made, and I’ll be dead before I ever do it again.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” I murmur, raising my glass to my lips. I’m beginning to regret not bringing a date to this thing. Even Celestia would have been a nice distraction right now.
“She scared you off, didn’t she?” His hand jostles my shoulder, and I move my drink before I spill it on my suit.
It doesn’t even matter that he didn’t say her name. Not saying it creates a vacuum in my brain—one it’s eager to fill, chanting it until my blood itself is pulsing to the cadence of it.
“She always does that. Never grateful for what she’s got right in front of her.” Shaking his head, Lord Wilson finally removes his arm and throws his cocktail back.
My body feels as rigid as a robot’s, but I can’t let him talk about Maeve like that. She’s his daughter, for fuck’s sake, not that he deserves to lay a single claim to her. “We were never more than friends,” I say. “It had nothing to do with her.”
I can tell he has more to say on the subject, but I choose that moment to walk away, because I’d rather slam my hand in a car door repeatedly than stick around and listen to it.
* * *
I’m in the middle of giving my speech when I finally see her. She’s standing near the front, and at first she’s just another face in the crowd. But my body knows, and I find my eyes traveling back to her, words becoming foreign entities to my tongue as my heart takes off like a MiG-25.
She’s wearing a dress that must have been designed by God Himself—a dark fitted gown that flares at the bottom like a mermaid’s tail.
It’s covered in a gold floral pattern—appropriately chosen with tonight’s venue in mind, I’m sure—and the fabric looks like it would collapse if I crushed it between my hands.
Her black hair is swept back and softly pinned up at the base of her neck.
Gold earrings in the shape of leaves dangle from her ears.
Fuck my life. She’s so gorgeous, it’s physically painful to look at her.
I force my eyes back to my phone, but it’s too late.
I’ve lost my place, thanks to Maeve’s face double-crossing my mind.
Picking a general location in my notes to restart from, I continue speaking, but my heart’s no longer in it.
It feels like I can’t breathe, like I’m choking on the very air providing oxygen to my lungs.
Five blessedly short minutes later, I’ve thanked everyone for coming, for their support and generosity, and wished them a good time tonight.
Technically, I’m supposed to stick around to schmooze our biggest donors, but I have no doubt the rest of the executive team can handle it if I slink off to a back corner somewhere.
I’ve had all the social interaction I can handle after being sucker-punched in the gut.
Climbing down the steps from the stage with the intention of grabbing another drink, my eyes find Maeve again in the sea of people, as if they’re magnets and she’s the north pole.
She’s turned away from me, revealing the fact that the back of her dress dips down to her waist, that creamy skin on display for all to see.
I even spy the freckle near her right hip that I’ve kissed more times than I can count.