Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
brIAR
The flash of cameras hits us the moment we step out of the car.
Stacy squeezes my hand and beams like she was born for this, which, to be honest, she might have been.
I straighten my shoulders, force my spine to hold up, and tell myself not to trip in front of a line of photographers who look like they could smell fear.
“Ready?” she murmurs.
“Not even a little,” I say, but I smile anyway.
We step onto the red carpet together.
Stacy is in a deep-emerald gown that hugs her curves like it was tailored to her body, and not off a rack.
The dress has a structured sweetheart neckline and thin straps that show off her shoulders, the skirt falling in a sleek column with a high slit up one leg.
Her hair is swept into a low chignon at the nape of her neck, with a few soft curls pulled free around her face.
Gold earrings catch the light when she turns her head, making her look glamorous and sharp all at once.
I went a different route. My gown is a soft champagne color with a subtle shimmer, the fabric clinging at the bodice without being too much.
The neckline is a gentle curve, demure enough for a fundraiser yet low enough that Lucien would definitely notice.
The back dips to my shoulder blades, the skirt flares slightly from the breast down, empire cut and very flattering.
My hair is swept up into a loose twist, pinned with tiny pearl clips, a few waves left to frame my face.
The bruising on my jaw is gone now, the stitches on my lip removed. The memories are not.
I feel like I’m wearing someone else’s life. Someone polished and confident. Someone who hasn’t been beaten in a café bathroom or had her ex-husband threaten everyone she loves. Someone who’s soul mate doesn’t take matters into his own hands and kills for them.
“Looking good, ladies,” one of the photographers calls.
We pose together, shoulders touching, hands around each other’s waists.
Cameras flash. The Met rises behind us, grand and imposing.
For a second I let myself breathe, let myself enjoy the moment.
This is the kind of event I once dreamed of running.
High society, art, money, power, and all for a good cause, numerous charities that would welcome a generous donation.
If only everything else wasn’t such a mess.
We move along the carpet slowly as more photos are taken. Stacy whispers small jokes in my ear to keep me from locking up. I cling to her like a lifeline.
Inside, the marble hall glows with warm light. Staff in black tie move efficiently, taking coats, directing donors, answering questions. It’s exactly how I planned it. Red carpet, check-in, champagne, flow into the main hall. Everything is in place.
“Seating check,” Stacy says, taking the lead.
We find the printed board. I scan the names, expecting to see both of us at the corporate sponsors’ table I had carefully crafted. Instead, my eyes snag on a different heading.
Moretti.
Our names are there. “Of course,” I mutter.
Stacy follows my gaze and snorts. “Well, that is new.”
“I didn’t put us there.”
“No one asked you,” she says lightly. “You’re just the woman who planned the whole event.”
I stare at the board for a moment. Of course Lucien did this.
He wants me within reach. To corner me at his table.
And the stupid part is I’m not even mad.
I’m relieved. It’s too late to change anything now with staff already guiding guests to their tables.
We fall in behind a small cluster of donors heading toward the main hall.
Inside, the Met is transformed. Round tables draped in white linen and topped with massive arrangements of white flowers and greenery surround a central stage. A large screen plays images of the different charities’ work, while the orchestra in the corner plays something classical and low.
We reach the Moretti table. Lucien is already there.
My heart stutters in my chest when I see him.
He stands as we approach, tall and impossibly handsome in a perfectly cut black tuxedo.
His tattoos are visible on his neck and at the cuff of his hands, yet he’s polished and so damn good-looking that I ache at the sight of him.
The white dress shirt, the bow tie, the lines of his body, the way he owns the space he stands in, he looks like sin and salvation all wrapped in one.
His eyes lock on to mine and everything else fades. I’ve missed him so much it aches. The sound of his voice. The weight of his hand on the small of my back. The way he looks at me like I’m the only woman in a room full of diamonds.
“Briar,” he says, and there is something raw in the way my name leaves his mouth.
“Lucien.”
He steps forward, and for a moment I think he will hesitate, that he’ll keep a polite distance after everything. He doesn’t. He leans in and presses a kiss to my cheek, his lips lingering a fraction too long. His hand settles on my hip as if it belongs there, warm and steady.
I try to keep my face neutral for the cameras that are still clicking around the room, but my body betrays me. Heat floods my skin. My pulse thunders. He greets Stacy too, civil and charming, but his attention keeps flicking back to me.
We’re guided toward our seats. I take the chair at his right, Stacy on my other side, with his brothers and Anthony filling the rest of the table.
There is laughter, a few jokes, a warm welcome from Stephen and Franco, but beneath it all is tension.
They all know what sits between us. Dinner is served.
Low conversation hums at every table. Wine flows.
Cutlery glints under the lights. Lucien says very little at first, but I feel him watching me.
Every time I look up, his gaze is there, heavy and hopeful, full of something like an apology. Like a man begging without words.
He killed a man for you. That should terrify you. It does. But it also means he chose your life over his own soul. What would I have done if someone threatened him? If the only way to keep him alive or someone I loved was to remove the danger? Would I have done any different?
I think of Matteo at that restaurant. The way he told me he would always watch me. That he would hurt Stacy. My parents. Lucien. Anyone. That he would rather see me dead than see me with someone else. If I had a gun that night and no one was watching, what would I have done?
I know the answer. That’s what scares me most. I’m not as unsoiled as I pretend either.
Halfway through the main course, Lucien’s hand slides under the tablecloth and rests lightly on my knee. My breath catches. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t demand. His fingers simply rest there, warm, solid, as if reminding me that he’s here.
I don’t push him away. Instead, I let my hand fall from the table to cover his. He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath for days. He leans in, his shoulder brushing mine, his mouth close to my ear so no one else can hear.
“Thank you for coming,” he murmurs, his deep voice like a balm for my soul.
“I helped organize it,” I say, keeping my tone cool, though my heart is beating wildly. “It would have been rude not to show up.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
I turn my head slightly. Our faces are very close. I can see the faint shadows under his eyes, the strain in his jaw.
“Briar…”
I swallow. There’s so much I could say, so many ways the conversation can go. “I don’t forgive what you did.” I straighten my spine, needing to say what I must. “Not fully, maybe not ever. You killed someone. That’s not something I can overlook.”
He flinches almost imperceptibly, but he nods.
“But,” I continue, “I understand why. After everything Matteo did. After everything he said, what he promised to do should I not fall in line. I know he would never have stopped. Not until one of us was dead.”
His fingers tighten around mine under the table.
“I’m not okay with murder,” I say softly. “I’m not okay with guns and alleyways and blood. I don’t want that life. Not again. I can’t live in that world, Lucien.”
“You won’t have to,” he says immediately. “This was a one-time thing. It’s done. I swear to you, I will never go back there again.”
I search his face. I see the truth there.
The regret. The determination. He’s a good man who did something terrible for me.
For us. He stepped over a line he drew years ago because the alternative was losing me.
How do I walk away from that? How do I punish him for loving me so much he killed for it?
“I would like to start again,” I say quietly. “Tonight. As day one. If we can. Not forgetting the past. Just…not letting it be the only thing that defines us.”
His eyes shine in the low light. “You want to start again,” he repeats, like he’s making sure he heard correctly. That I wasn’t just spouting false hope. That there could be a future after all.
“Yes,” I whisper. “If you still want me.”
He lets out a soft, incredulous laugh, then tips my chin up with his free hand and kisses me. It is not a deep kiss. Not the kind that makes me forget my name. Its gentle and brief, a question and an answer all in one.
When he pulls back, his voice is low and rough. “I have wanted you from the first moment I saw you walk into my office,” he says. “Starting again is fine with me, as long as you understand I’m never letting you go.”
“Mutual.” My throat is tight with emotion.
His hand remains on my leg. Mine remains over his. The lights dim slightly and the MC steps onto the stage. Lucien squeezes my knee once, then reluctantly pulls away and stands. The room goes quiet.
“Our glorious leader,” Franco murmurs with a smirk.