Chapter 7 #2
“Mm.” Sonya takes a sip of her drink. “You don’t look fine. You look like you might set his tie on fire and call it a learning experience.”
Bron’s mouth twitches.
I do not smile. “That would imply his tie is worth the effort.”
“Cruel,” Bron murmurs.
“Accurate,” Sonya says.
The worst part is that he seems delighted.
Not by my anger exactly—he’s not stupid enough for that—but by the fact that I’m here, in front of him, real and breathing and speaking in full sentences.
There’s an energy in him I recognize with bone-deep clarity.
He’s thrilled. Shaken, yes. But thrilled too, and that makes me want to throw him through one of the Solarium windows just on principle.
Because of course he would find this exciting.
A reunion. Tension. Heat. Sharp words. History pressing up under the present like a bruise.
To Bron, disaster has always had a little glitter on it.
He lowers his voice. “Can we talk?”
“We are talking.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do. The answer is no.”
His brows pull together. “Not even for five minutes?”
“Especially not for five minutes.”
“Tilda.”
“Bron.”
He lets out a breath, glances at the people orbiting us, then back at me. “You’re really going to do this here.”
I almost laugh at that. The nerve. The sheer polished nerve of a man who once vanished whenever consequences started asking for forwarding information now sounding inconvenienced that I won’t grant him privacy.
“I’m not doing anything,” I say. “You walked over here.”
“That’s fair.”
“Yes.”
He shifts his weight, and I catch the smallest break in his composure. A hitch. A real one. It does something ugly to my chest.
His voice goes soft again. “I didn’t expect—”
“No,” I cut in. “You rarely did.”
There. That one lands deep.
His jaw tightens.
Good.
A reporter’s laugh peals from the far side of the hall. Somewhere near the sponsor displays, somebody claps. The room feels overbright, every reflective surface catching light and throwing it back at us.
Bron looks at me for another long second. “All right,” he says. “Then I’ll keep it simple.”
“Oh, that would be new.”
“I’m glad you’re here.”
I blink at him.
Not because the sentence is extraordinary. Because he says it without performance. No wink. No shield. No little throwaway grin to dull the edge of sincerity. Just the truth, standing there between us in polished shoes.
My reaction is immediate and vicious.
I put my hand on the table beside me to keep from doing something theatrical. “Do not,” I say very quietly, “stand there in a sponsor suit at a televised reception and tell me you’re glad I’m here like that means something.”
His gaze doesn’t move from mine. “It does mean something.”
“To you, maybe.”
“Yes,” he says.
I hate the steadiness of that answer.
I hate that some tiny ruined part of me still recognizes the difference between his easy lies and the moments when he stops decorating himself and just says what’s true.
So I go colder.
“That’s your problem,” I say. “Not mine.”
Behind him, Dax looks from Bron to me and back again like he’s watching a sport he didn’t realize was on the card. Sonya folds one arm across her middle and mutters, “Yikes,” under her breath.
Bron hears it. Doesn’t care.
He tries a different tack, because of course he does.
A little more charm. A little less force.
“I know you’re angry,” he says. “You have every right to be.”
“What a relief. I was waiting for your permission.”
“Tilda.”
“No, go on. Tell me how noble you are for acknowledging reality.”
He drags a hand over the back of his neck, and there—there—is the first visible sign that I’m finally getting under his skin. “You always did know exactly where to put the knife.”
“And you always mistook bleeding for intimacy.”
Silence.
That one lands so hard even Dax winces.
Bron’s expression doesn’t collapse. He’s too disciplined for that. But something in it tightens, a private flinch he can’t quite hide. His eyes go darker.
Good, I think.
Good.
And also, traitorously, not good at all.
Because there was a time I knew those eyes in the dark. A time I knew what that look meant when it softened, when it sharpened, when it asked, when it broke. Memory is disgusting like that. It doesn’t care what you’ve earned the right to forget.
He says, very carefully, “I’m trying here.”
“For what?”
The question comes out sharper than I mean it to, but I don’t take it back.
He opens his mouth.
Closes it.
For the first time since he walked over, he actually seems uncertain.
That should satisfy me.
Instead it leaves me feeling scraped hollow.
A production drone glides closer, interested now that the body language has turned dangerous. Sonya notices and steps half a foot sideways, blocking its clean angle with her shoulder like she’s done this kind of thing before. I clock that and store it away for later.
Bron glances at the drone, then back at me. “Not here.”
“No,” I say. “Not anywhere.”
His smile returns, but now it’s thin. Tired at the edges. “You really have decided I’m the devil.”
“No.” I look him over once, deliberately. “The devil plans better.”
Dax actually chokes on his drink.
Bron closes his eyes for half a second and laughs under his breath, low and disbelieving. “Gods.”
“What?”
“I forgot what it’s like when you’re mad at me.”
My voice goes velvet-cold. “Then let me refresh your memory. You do not get to be pleased that I’m still memorable. You do not get to walk up to me after years and act like this is some charming twist in your evening. And you certainly do not get to assume I’m interested in being charmed.”
He opens his eyes.
“I know,” he says.
There it is again. That infuriating sincerity. Not arguing. Not dodging.
Just I know.
I want him easier than this. Easier to hate cleanly. Easier to dismiss. I want him shallow and glib and unchanged so I can put him back in the box labeled mistake and nail it shut.
Instead he’s standing here looking at me like he’s just found something he lost and knows better than to reach for it too fast.
Unacceptable.
I straighten, take one step back from the table, and smooth my expression into something fit for cameras and sponsors and polite public murder.
“This conversation is over,” I say.
Dax takes that as his cue to retreat entirely. Smart man. Sonya lingers half a beat longer, eyes flicking to me in a silent you good?
No, I think.
Out loud I say, “Fine.”
A lie. But a graceful one.
Bron’s gaze drops to my face, searching for something I refuse to give him. “Tilda—”
I cut him off with a look sharp enough to skin bark.
He stops.
Good.
I dip my chin just enough to qualify as civility. “Enjoy the reception.”
Then I turn and walk away before my legs can reconsider, before the room can tilt, before I can do the unforgivable thing and look back.
Behind me, I can feel it—the drag of his attention, hot and heavy between my shoulder blades. Nearby conversations hush, then resume with the hungry little snap of people pretending they didn’t just witness an emotional detonation in formalwear.
By the time I reach the far side of the hall, my hands are shaking.
I curl them around a fresh glass of water from a passing tray and stand near the windows until the trembling eases enough that I trust myself not to throw it.
Outside, Fratvoy’s evening sky has deepened to cobalt. The compound glows below in lines of silver and gold, arenas lit like altars, walkways gleaming, cameras drifting.
I stare out at it and breathe.
One thing is clear now.
This competition just got more dangerous.
And not because of the obstacles.