7 Kimmy
A man in a blazer checked my name against a list, then peeled the heavy glass door open. Inside, the reception was already chaos—laughter bouncing off the marble, the mechanical hum of a hundred conversations, the sound of my own heels on polished tile.
It was too bright at first in the lobby, then too dark in the corridor. The event planners must have spent a year on the lighting design—bands of gold running along the walls of the reception, shadow pools in every corner, even the air tasted expensive.
First thing I did was check the side pocket of my purse for pepper spray. Still there, the red safety tab unbroken.
I exhaled and joined the flow.
In the main ballroom, the ceiling was three stories high, its chandelier a galaxy of broken glass and light. Every guest was taller, shinier, or richer than I could remember and I remembered a lot of them from my days at Evernight Events. I hoped they didn't remember me.
I headed straight for the Lark & Lark table to say hello to Solange. She was one of our admin and she'd arrived earlier to prepare for the event. She was on her phone now, engaged in what looked like a texting war.
"How is it going?" I asked, scanning the table. The setup was just as Geneva described: business cards, promo fliers, a bowl of branded chocolates.
"Fine," Solange replied, lifting her head from the screen. "Nice to meet you in person."
"Same."
We exchanged polite smiles.
"Do you mind watching over the table for a little while?" I asked. "I'm going to mingle for a few minutes and find those investors Geneva wants me to schmooze."
"Knock yourself out," Solange chirped. "It's not like I have anywhere else to be. I have to break this down anyway after the event."
I weaved through the crowd and sidled up to the drink station to order a club soda. Taking an Uber here instead of driving was the right decision. The jitters were real.
The bartender hardly looked my way—he was busy with a tray of champagne flutes, the stems clinking like brittle bones. I scanned the perimeter, just like Dr. Carney taught me, naming things until the panic shrank to something manageable.
Five. A line of ice buckets, sweating through silver.
Four. A man talking with his hands.
Three. A small banner for another event planning company I knew of—hung up in the far side of the ballroom.
Two. A plate of untouched cheese cubes.
One. The nearest emergency exit in a slim hallway behind the bar.
The first guest who spoke to me was a man named Pierson, in real estate. I recognized him from Geneva's list. He grinned with so much surface charm it was like a dental ad. "You must be Geneva's famous girl, Kimberly," he said.
I tried to smile, but my lips did not cooperate. "I just do the calls and the emails."
He laughed, but his eyes tracked every other woman in the room. "Well, you're doing a great job. That last campaign was brilliant. Even my wife noticed."
I mumbled a thank you and hoped he'd move on. Pierson wasn't done. "I bet you hate these things," he said. "Don't worry. You'll get used to it. Next year, you'll be running the place."
I didn't want next year. I wanted to disappear.
Instead, I tried to get my shit together and say a few nice things about Lark & Lark. He didn't seem interested but he gave me his business card anyway.
Then there was another man after. And another. And another. Every single one of them wanted to get my number. No one wanted to talk about Lark & Lark.
When the last character drifted off, I inched back toward the Lark & Lark table. Solange wasn't around. I texted her after a few minutes while re-organizing the cards. It gave my hands something to do.
"Kimberly?" a woman's voice asked. I turned. It was Marley Sharon, one of the vendors we worked with. She was dressed like she belonged—hair perfect, makeup sharp, smile even sharper. "Surprised to see you here."
"Hi," I managed. "I'm surprised I'm here too."
"It's a pleasure to meet you in person. I've only ever seen you on the website's list of team members."
"Hope not to disappoint."
"Oh God no, sweetie. Geneva's lucky," Marley said, piling on the words. "I would have killed to have you on my team."
"I appreciate it. I like where I am at."
"I wasn't trying to steal you."
No, she was testing the waters for now. I wondered why though. Everyone in this industry who was someone knew Kimberly Holt was the one not to hire. The Valmonts had made sure of that three years ago.
Luckily, Marley didn't pursue the topic further and vanished soon.
After that, it was a blur of faces, some familiar some not. Just like I thought, most didn't remember me. I stood by the display, smiling at anyone who came close, parroting the talking points Geneva had emailed that morning.
When I checked my phone to see if Solange had responded, forty minutes had passed. My water was gone, and so was my voice. I weighed the odds of slipping out, just for a second, to breathe.
That was when I saw him.
Ronan Wick entered from the west patio. The doors were glass, and for one terrible instant, I saw his reflection layered over the whole party. He wore a suit the color of midnight and a smile that made my stomach knot.
He didn't see me. Not yet. But I saw him, and my body shut down.
My fingers stopped working. The stack of business cards fell, scattering over the tablecloth, and I just stood there, watching as he shook hands with Pierson and a couple of other men.
He moved through the crowd like he owned the floor, eyes never lingering on one person for more than a second.
A short man in a suit with an unfamiliar face followed him.
A friend? A business partner? Or security?
I lowered my head, turned away, and began gathering the cards with clumsy hands. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, and my chest felt tight. Every part of me urged me to escape. But my legs wouldn't move.
All these therapy sessions with Dr. Carney…
Seeing your attacker can trigger severe PTSD symptoms, Kimmy.
Flashbacks, fear, re-traumatization.
We will get through this together.
We will make sure you're back to where you once were—feeling safe and comfortable.
But it wasn't working. It just wasn't.
Ronan was there, across the room, and I felt like he held my entire life in the grasp of his palm. If he wanted me permanently out, all he needed to do was squeeze.
"…cuse me?"
Someone was talking to me, I realized. A woman, maybe thirty, with short blonde hair and in a pantsuit that probably cost more than my rent.
"Are you Kimberly Holt?"
I nodded, words lost somewhere down my throat. Forced a smile.
She stuck out her hand. "Amanda. I'm with Castell Funding. Geneva and I have been friends forever. I thought I should introduce myself. How is she doing? Any news about her father?"
I shook her hand. It was like grabbing onto an electric fence.
"He's going to make it," I replied.
"Oh. I'm so glad to hear it."
"Yes."
"Beautiful event," Amanda said, scanning the crowd. "Is this your first time?"
"No. I mean, yes. First time at Wildhaven. Not the first event." My voice sounded like it belonged to a robot.
Amanda laughed. "Well, you're doing great."
We exchanged a few more pleasantries and Amanda excused herself, leaving me to my own devices. My hands trembled and I tried to name things again, but my mind skipped and skidded, couldn't find any traction.
A tall server moved past, refilling glasses, and for a second, I thought about grabbing his arm and asking for help. But help with what? He was just a server.
I forced myself to count to ten, then turned, scanning the crowd for Ronan. He was closer now, laughing with another group of men. His teeth were too white, too even. I wanted to shove my fist into his jaw.
Instead, I panicked and pivoted.
Screw this and screw flaky Solange.
I needed to take myself out of this situation before I lost all control of my mind and body.
I walked fast, not quite running, but almost, straight for the far wall. There was a marble column with a potted plant beside it. I ducked behind the column and pressed my back to the stone, closing my eyes, counting heartbeats.
When I peeked around, Ronan was still in the cluster of men, but now he was scanning the room. I shrank back and tried to calm down.
My brain went into tactical mode. Three ways out. The main doors, the service corridor, or the west patio. All of them required passing through the open. I cursed myself for not memorizing the floor plan better.
There are two kinds of footsteps. The ones you hear, and the ones you feel.
I felt them before I heard them. A presence, a displacement of air, like the vacuum when a door seals shut behind you. I tried to become smaller behind the column, but my dress and my bones betrayed me. The next instant, a hand materialized on my elbow.
I shuddered and turned to see who it was.
"Miss Holt," the man murmured, just above a whisper. He was Ronan's companion. Nothing about him was memorable. Just another bleak suit. "There's someone who needs a word with you."
I tried to pull away, but his grip was absolute—gentle, but insistent, like gravity. I looked up, and the only thing I saw was the way his lips barely moved when he spoke.
"Let's not make a scene."
He steered me away from the column, away from the lights and noise, down a side hallway I hadn't noticed before. The transition was instant—from the gold-and-marble opulence to a narrow, windowless corridor where the music and laughter thinned out to a dull smear.
I tried to keep my voice steady. "I really can't leave my table—"
He cut me off with a tiny shake of his head. "It won't take long."
I could've screamed. But the hallway was empty. I catalogued the way his fingers pressed into my arm—just enough to say you belong to me for the next thirty seconds. We rounded a corner, past a janitor's closet, and stopped by the restroom sign.
Ronan Wick stood there.
The grasp on my arm loosened.
"Kimberly," Ronan said, voice low and fake-friendly. "What a surprise to see you here."
"What do you want?" I blurted out.