7. Aria
I stood in the middle of the transformed warehouse, watching the florists arrange them on every table.
White dendrobiums, purple vandas, the deep pink of wild orchids my grandmother used to grow in her backyard.
Plumeria blossoms floated in shallow bowls of water, their fragrance mixing with the smell of fresh linen and the faint smokiness of the koa wood candles we'd had shipped in.
"The caterers are asking about the pupu station placement." Priya appeared at my elbow, tablet in hand, headset looped around her neck. "Also, the string quartet wants to know if they can set up near the bar or if that's too close to the silent auction."
"Pupu station goes near the entrance. I want people eating the moment they walk in, it loosens wallets. The quartet goes in the far corner, opposite the auction. Background music, not competition."
Priya tapped notes into her tablet. "Got it. Oh, and Nalani said to tell you the gift bags are ready, but we're short three because someone…" she glanced at me meaningfully "...decided to add last-minute items."
"The kukui nut oil is important. It's from a women's cooperative on the Big Island. Every person who takes one home has a chance to learn about the program."
"I'm not arguing. I'm just saying we're short three bags."
"Then three people will have to share."
I turned in a slow circle, taking it all in.
The converted warehouse in Tribeca had been gutted and rebuilt into something that straddled the line between industrial and elegant—exposed brick walls, steel beams overhead, massive windows that would catch the sunset in another hour.
We'd softened it with the string lights, the flowers, the warm glow of the candles.
This was our biggest night of the year. The annual summer gala. Six months of planning, a guest list of three hundred, a fundraising goal that made my stomach clench when I thought about it too hard.
But I wasn't thinking about it too hard. I was thinking about the RSVP that had come through two weeks ago, the name that had made me stop mid-sip of my morning coffee and stare at my laptop screen for a full minute.
Sebastian Dubois. Attending. Plus one.
Plus one meant Evie. He was bringing Evie.
Which meant I couldn't ignore him. Couldn't be cold or cutting or any of the things I wanted to be when he was near. Because Evie would be watching, and Evie had spent five weeks opening up to me, trusting me, and I wouldn't let Sebastian ruin that.
I also hadn’t seen him since that incident a week ago.
He’d quickly gone back to waiting in the car.
Every evening, I’d see his silhouette in his car.
He always stared straight ahead, never glanced at the building.
I wondered if he’d actually come in, maybe even apologize for yelling at me.
But nothing. His ego was too big for him to admit when he was wrong.
Which was pretty much the same thing he’d done at the principal’s office. I still hadn’t gotten an apology for that either. And I wasn’t holding my breath for that one. Sebastian Dubois could…
"Earth to Aria? Did you hear anything I just said?"
I blinked. “I… of course I did.” I heard nothing. Sebastian had fully occupied my thoughts for a second, pushing everything away like the bulldozer he was.
"Mmhmm." She didn't sound convinced. "Is this about the guest list?"
"Why would it be about the guest list?" I frowned. Why was she asking me that?
"No reason." She scrolled through her tablet with exaggerated casualness. "Just noticed a certain name on there. A certain someone you don’t get along with."
I grabbed a crate of orchids and shoved it toward one of the florists harder than necessary. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't."
"Don't you have logistics to manage?"
"I do. But watching you pretend you're not freaking out is more fun." She dodged the look I threw at her and disappeared into the chaos, laughing.
I wasn't freaking out.
I was... aware. And I wasn’t going to avoid him either. I deserved an apology and it was only right that I got it.
I spent the next three hours directing logistics. Florists, caterers, and the lighting guy who couldn't seem to understand what "warm but not yellow" meant. By 5 p.m., the warehouse had transformed into something that actually looked like an event.
It looked like Hawaii had crashed into Manhattan and decided to stay for dinner.
Nalani materialized beside me, a garment bag draped over her arm.
"Oh," she exclaimed as she studied me. “What are you thinking about? Someone hot, I presume?” I shot her a look that said, ‘Really?’ She raised her free hand. “What? You should have seen your face. Your pupils were all dilated. If I didn’t know better, I’d say…”
"Nalani…"
"I didn’t say anything." She thrust the garment bag toward me. "Go get ready. You've been in event-planner mode for six hours. Time to switch to charming-hostess mode."
"I can be both."
"You can't be either in yoga pants and a foundation t-shirt. Go."
I took the bag. "If the lighting guy tries to make everything yellow again…"
"I'll handle it. Go."
I took the bag and headed for the small office we'd converted into a dressing room. The door closed behind me, muffling the sounds of setup—the clink of glassware, the florists arguing about centerpiece heights, someone testing the microphone with a series of increasingly ridiculous phrases.
The garment bag held my dress. Emerald green silk, floor-length, with a neckline that walked the line between elegant and daring. I'd bought it three years ago for a gala I'd ended up missing because of a foundation emergency. It had hung in my closet ever since, waiting for the right moment.
Tonight felt like the right moment.
I stripped off my t-shirt and yoga pants, stepped into the dress, and zipped it carefully up my side.
The silk was cool against my skin, shifting with every movement and shimmering like water.
I fiddled with my dark hair for a second, then settled for a sleek up-do.
It took a while for the curls to settle, but after another tight tug, I managed to hold everything in.
I checked my reflection in the full-length mirror someone had propped against the wall.
The color brought out the tan in my skin. The cut emphasized curves I usually hid under practical blazers and sensible slacks. I looked like someone who belonged at a gala, confident, polished, a little bit dangerous.
I stood in the mirror and imagined Sebastian in front of me. “You owe me an apology,” I said to my reflection with the meanest scowl I could muster. But my blue eyes weren't presenting the level of intensity I wanted to get across.
I wasn’t this person. Sebastian somehow always managed to suck out the light from me, leaving me with a dark, angry sensation. I always seemed to lose myself when I was around him, overwhelmed by this primal urge to land verbal blow after blow.
Remember your mantra, Aria. You’re going to be calm tonight. Nothing nefarious is going to get in your way.
I studied my reflection one more time before I walked out of the office.
The gala started at seven.
By 7:30, I'd already worked through half the room. Smiled until my face hurt. Laughed at jokes that weren't funny. Listened to stories I'd heard a dozen times before.
Mrs. Whitmore cornered me near the silent auction to talk about her late husband Harold. Dr. Hilary wanted to discuss expanding the mobile clinic program. Congressman Holloway made promises about the education bill that I didn't believe for a second but pretended to find encouraging.
This was the job. Schmoozing. Charming. Extracting money from people who had too much of it.
I was good at this. I'd been doing it since I was sixteen, trailing after my parents at their events, learning to smile on command. It was second nature to me by now. Besides, I was effortlessly charming when I needed to be, especially when a certain someone wasn’t in the room.
I kept scanning the room. Telling myself I was checking on the caterers, the auction, the general flow of the evening. But my eyes kept drifting toward the entrance. Waiting.
Stupid. He was just a man. A cold, arrogant, infuriating man who happened to be the father of a girl I cared about. That was the only reason I was aware of him. The only reason my pulse jumped every time the door opened.
The only reason.
"You're doing it again," Nalani murmured, sliding up beside me with a champagne flute.
"Doing what?"
"Looking at the door like you're waiting for someone."
"I'm not waiting for anyone."
"Mmhmm." She took a sip of her champagne. "So you won't care that he just walked in?"
My head snapped toward the entrance before I could stop it.
Sebastian stood just inside the door.
He was wearing a black suit that fit him like it had been made specifically for his body, which it probably had.
White shirt, no tie, the collar open just enough to seem casual while the cut of the jacket screamed money.
His hair was slightly disheveled, like he'd run his fingers through it on the way in.
My eyes dropped to his jaw. It’d been a week since I’d seen his full profile. His usual clean shaven jaw was now covered with dark strands of hair. He actually did look good. Some may even say attractive. Not like the ogre that liked to yell out demands.
Evie stood beside him in a navy dress with a tulle skirt, her hair in a French braid. She looked uncomfortable, scanning the room with the wariness of someone who expected to be judged.
They made a striking pair. Father and daughter, matching in their formal elegance and their obvious discomfort with crowds.
I hated that I noticed how good he looked.
Sebastian's gaze swept the room with that particular intensity he brought to everything, assessing, calculating, cataloging. I watched it happen, watched him take in the venue, the guests, the careful details we'd spent months planning.
Then his eyes found mine.