45. Dante
Chapter 45
Dante
Why am I at a club the week of Christmas?
I should be in New Orleans with Reese, meeting her family. Or at least with my own family. Instead, I’m avoiding everyone who cares about me.
I collide with the bathroom counter. My stomach revolts at the absinthe’s bite. Hours of hollow laughter and throwing back shots have scorched my throat raw.
The door slams shut behind me as I stumble into the VIP section. A light flashes. Someone thrusts a phone upward, recording, press badge partially concealed beneath leather, but I recognize predatory eyes.
“Mr. Hastings!” they shout, pushing forward. “Comment about Reese Sinclair?”
The vultures circle. Todd has been rejecting requests all week. Vogue , the Stone Times , Vanity Fair , and Esquire are all hungry for my relationship exposé.
Fuck them.
Security moves to eject the reporter, but I raise my hand and choose to nip their questioning in the bud. “No fucking comment.”
I rejoin my table, swarmed with strangers. Someone—nameless in my memory—reaches for me. I recoil, nearly toppling a bottle of Dom.
Mei and Tiago are hunched over their phones. Mari shoots me a judgment-laden glance.
Whatever.
It’s been two days since Reese asked for space. I understand why. I should’ve been upfront with her from the start. I know this distance is necessary, but missing out on being with her is a constant ache.
“Everyone having fun?” I pour myself a shot. “It’s the holidays. Drink up.”
Mari leans forward. “Maybe go easy? You seem—”
My laugh cuts sharp. “What, Mari? Am I not Party Dante enough?”
“Are you for real?” Mari stands, eyes steady with years of seeing through my bullshit.
“Why else are you all here, huh?”
“You act like we’re only your friend because of who you are. Did you forget that I was there for your first Nike deal? When you vomited in my car before ESPN? When your suspension hit? I flew to you first.” She catches herself, jaw tight, remembering my yacht summer that started this mess. “Don’t pretend that you aren’t reverting back to the old you because you’re fucking hurt.”
Was I always this transparent?
The club suffocates me now. “I am fucking hurt, okay? This is the only way I know how to deal with that.”
“That’s not true.” Mari seizes my sleeve, fingers digging into expensive fabric. “Listen to me. Yes, things got messy with the media. But Reese fell for you—the real you. Not the tabloid version, not the highlight reel. She saw past all this shit you hide behind”—she gestures at the VIP section, the bottle service, the hovering paparazzi with their hungry lenses—“to the guy who forgot to perform when he was with her.”
“I’ve never—Mari, I’ve never felt like this about anyone.”
“Drowning in Dom Pérignon won’t fix it.” Mari squeezes my shoulder. “She needs time to redefine herself beyond the spotlight. Maybe you do too. To be just Dante.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, feeling the room tilt dangerously. The truth is embarrassingly simple—I’d constructed a persona so meticulously that I’d forgotten how to exist without an audience.
Tiago and Mei chime in, phones ready. “Forget all that, darling,” Mei says with a dismissive wave. “What you really need is a better party to get your mind off of all that heartache.”
Mari glares at her. “Not now, Mei.”
Tiago nods enthusiastically. “That new rooftop on Seventh? Everyone who matters will be there.”
The familiar pattern beckons—another night of blurry excess, another headline. The easiest escape.
“No,” I say, the word unfamiliar yet firm. “Not tonight.” I turn toward Mari. “I’m getting out of here.”
I push my way out of the club, nearly tripping over my own feet. Outside, the city pulses around me, indifferent to my small tragedy. The cold air hits my face like a slap, and somewhere in the distance, a camera flashes.
For the first time in years, I let myself be invisible.
It feels like coming up for air after drowning in my own reflection.