Chapter 36 Complicated Looks Good On You
Complicated Looks Good On You
August
Snow turns Chicago into a lie.
Outside the Museum of Science and Industry, the city looks soft. Quiet. Forgiving. Streetlights haloed in white, sidewalks dusted like somebody’s trying to erase their footprints before the sun can catch them.
Inside, nothing is forgiven.
Warmth hits first. Then sound. Glass clinks. Low jazz. A thousand polite conversations braided together into elegant static. The air carries truffle oil and champagne and expensive perfume, plus something floral that reminds me of my mother’s gardenias. Legacy, bottled. Popped open.
I move through it like I was built for it. Because I was.
Handshakes. Shoulder claps. The familiar squeeze of donors who want proximity to impact. Board members laughing like they can afford to laugh. Dresses that shimmer when women turn. Watches that don’t tick but still feel loud.
“August! This is incredible,” someone says, catching my hand with both of theirs like they’re praying into it.
“Thank you,” I tell them, smile easy, voice warm. I’m practiced at warmth.
A second person leans in, eyes soft. “Your father would be proud.”
That one still lands like a thumb pressed into a bruise.
I nod once, jaw tight, letting the lump rise and pass without making a scene. This night isn’t about my grief. It’s about what we do with it.
Auction screens glow along the walls, numbers climbing in real time. Chef dinners. Private experiences. Box seats. Weekend escapes that read like a dream if you don’t squint too hard at how fragile everything is. Watching bids jump makes my chest ease, just a little.
Proof.
Community doesn’t cure cancer. But it funds the people who fight like hell to.
I take a slow breath, let the room settle in my bones. The snow outside might be quiet, but in here, every smile is a performance. Every laugh is a handshake in disguise.
And I’m the host. The face. The one who can’t afford to let his eyes look tired.
“August!”
Monroe’s voice cuts through the noise like espresso. Warm. Necessary.
He weaves through the crowd with that familiar grin, tux sharp, shoulders still carrying the memory of a jersey. He claps my shoulder hard enough to remind me we’re not in suits because we’re soft.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he says.
I exhale. “Feels like I hosted a summit.”
“Tables?”
“Full. Grateful. Judgmental,” I say, and he laughs.
He glances at the auction screens, nodding. “It’s a vibe. You should be proud.”
“I am,” I admit, because I am. Even if pride is complicated when it shares space with loss.
Monroe’s grin turns wicked. “Need anything? Want me to play matchmaker tonight?”
I start to wave him off, but then I catch the woman on his arm.
She’s… a decision.
Long gold hair, lips glossy enough to be dangerous, and a feathered black dress that belongs on a stage, not in a museum. She looks like trouble with a manicure.
“Ah, my bad,” Monroe says. “August, meet Ariel.”
I take her hand, polite, smooth. “Pleasure’s mine. You enjoying yourself?”
She scans the room like she’s shopping. Then her eyes land on me. “When does the actual food come out? Monroe promised a sit-down, not shrimp on trays.”
I keep my smile easy. “Dinner’s coming. But the shrimp are top tier. I can track some down if you’re willing to risk addiction.”
She squints like she doesn’t believe in joy. “I’m gonna need more than shrimp.” Then her attention catches something shiny. “Ooh. champagne.”
She twirls away, feathers and entitlement.
“You want one, baby?” she calls over her shoulder to Monroe, sweet and sharp at once.
Monroe watches her go like he’s bracing for impact, then turns back to me with that running back calm. “She’s not Camille. But she brings the heat.”
There’s a flicker behind his eyes when he says the name he doesn’t say. The ghost of Camille sits at the edge of his mouth anyway.
“You okay?” I ask, soft enough that it stays between us.
He nods once. “Didn’t feel right showing up solo.”
I don’t push. Some bruises don’t need fingers to hurt.
He pivots, merciful. “But you. Where’s your… situation?”
My chest tightens because he doesn’t even know how accurate that word is.
“It’s complicated,” I say.
Monroe’s grin fades a notch. “Complicated,” he repeats, like he knows how heavy that can get.
It is heavy. It’s also… good. Dangerous. Worth it.
Because Harlee doesn’t want any of this for herself. Not the attention. Not the association. Not the assumptions. She wants her degree. Her future. Her own name standing upright without mine stapled to it.
And I want that for her, too.
That’s the problem. That’s the pull.
“She’s stubborn,” I say, letting it sound lighter than it feels. "Her name is Harlee. No y double e."
Monroe’s eyes narrow. “Harlee?”
I blink. “You know her?”
“Now that's a name,” he says, grin returning. “You’re spelling it and everything. That’s serious.”
I snort. “Relax.”
“Is she here?”
I scan the room automatically, even though my body’s been scanning all night. Even though I keep telling myself I’m not waiting for her like a man who absolutely shouldn't be.
Before I can answer, a voice cuts in.
“August!”
Richard Dixon strides toward us in a tux that fit a decade ago. Cedar and citrus on him, old-school charm with boardroom bite.
“Richard,” I say, hand out, smile on. He shakes, then claps my back like we’re family.
“You’ve outdone yourself,” he beams. “Monte Carlo was genius.”
“Just trying to raise a little money and shake a few pockets loose,” I say.
He laughs, the kind that fills space. “Mission accomplished.”
I ask about Cynthia, because I know better than to talk business first with men like him. He launches into stories about travel, about golf, about people I’ve spent my whole life learning how to politely tolerate.
And then he says a name that turns my stomach cold.
“Carver said—”
My stepfather’s name hangs there like smoke.
I keep my face smooth. Keep my smile steady. I’ve built an entire career on not flinching in public.
“Golfing, huh?” I say. “Did he at least let you win?”
Richard chuckles, oblivious. Bless him.
I pivot fast, because I’m not letting Carver take up space in my gala. Not tonight.
“Richard, you know Monroe, right?”
Richard lights up like a stadium. Grabs Monroe’s hand with the joy of a lifelong fan.
Monroe handles it with grace, smooth and warm, that magnetic ease that makes people lean in. Even when he doesn’t ask them to.
A flash of feathers cuts back into the circle.
Ariel returns, champagne flute raised like a trophy. “Found it! Took long enough. You’d think it wouldn’t be so hard to find champagne with all these people hogging the waitstaff.”
The words land too loud. Too sharp. I feel the ripple. Richard feels it too.
Monroe leans down, murmurs something in her ear. Whatever it is, it doesn’t soothe. Her face pinches.
“Really?” she snaps.
Richard executes a flawless exit, gentleman smile back in place. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to find my wife.”
He squeezes my shoulder, smooth as ever. “Let’s catch up before the night’s out.”
“Of course,” I say.
As soon as Richard disappears into the crowd, I exhale through my nose and pivot away from that little social grenade.
“Ro, I’ll catch you in a bit,” I tell Monroe. We dap quick, easy. “Gotta go charm someone out of a check.”
His eyes say good luck. His mouth says, “Talk.”
I move back into the flow, rejoining the elegant chaos. Laughter. Music. Candlelight making everybody look kinder than they are.
And then, like a reward for surviving, I spot Kelley and Emmett cutting across the floor.
Kelley’s tux is midnight blue, satin lapel catching light with every step. He wears drama like cologne. Emmett's is crisp black, wire frames, legal brain even at a gala.
Kelley grins when he sees my face. “Five-figure suit and a scowl? Come on, bro. This is a party, not a funeral.”
I laugh, real for the first time in an hour. “Trying to keep everything running smooth.”
Emmett lifts his drink like it’s personally offended him. “Everything’s perfect. I should be the one scowling. Blackjack ate me alive.”
Kelley claps his shoulder. “It’s for a good cause.”
“If I knew you were that bad at cards, I’d have lowered your buy-in,” I tell Emmett.
Emmett mutters something about his wife and the silent auction, then disappears with the tired resignation of a man about to negotiate for his life.
Kelley snatches a crab cake off a tray like he’s stealing state secrets.
“Those are for guests,” I say.
“I’m a guest,” he says around a mouthful. “And I also paid for them. So really, I’m the patron saint of crab cakes.”
We grab champagne, bubbles catching chandelier light.
“You did good,” Kelley says, quieter now. “This is real, August. People feel it.”
His sincerity hits me in the chest because it’s rare and because it’s true.
I lift my glass. “To making a difference.”
He clinks his to mine. “To you.”
And then I hear it.
Her laugh.
I turn before my brain can talk me out of it.
Harlee stands just outside a conversation, and the room… shifts.
That dress—Carajo.
Sage green satin, off her shoulders, poured over her like it was made with her in mind and nobody else’s. It catches the light and refuses to give it back. Every curve, every line… deliberate without trying.
And she’s not performing. Not fishing for attention.
Just standing there. Like she already decided she belongs—and the room can either agree or be wrong.
My breath stalls.
Because it’s not just how she looks.
It’s her.
Brilliant. Funny as hell. Soft when she wants to be, sharp when she needs to be. The kind of woman who can hold a room without raising her voice… and then turn around and make me forget mine.
My equal. My problem. My peace.
I exhale slow, almost under my breath.
Yeah… that’s mine.
Pride hits me right after—fast, heavy, almost reckless.
Like the world doesn’t even understand what it’s looking at.
But I do.