Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Grace
The nightclub pulsed with heavy bass, neon lights flashing against the dark walls in erratic bursts.
The air was thick with alcohol, sweat, and expensive cologne, bodies pressed too close together, voices blending into a mess of laughter, shouting, and music.
I had been in enough high-profile events to recognize this kind of place—glamorous, excessive, and completely detached from reality.
Everyone here was performing, selling the illusion of carelessness, pretending they weren’t just waiting for the right camera to capture them looking effortlessly wild.
And in the center of it all was Ezra Carter.
I spotted him immediately, sprawled in the VIP section, a bottle of whiskey in one hand, his other arm draped over the back of the couch.
His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to suggest recklessness, but not enough to be unintentional.
A cigarette dangled loosely between his fingers, though I doubted he would actually smoke it—more of an accessory than anything else.
He was flanked by two women, both stunning, both clearly used to being seen on the arms of men like him.
He laughed at something one of them said, head tilting back slightly, posture completely relaxed. He was playing his part flawlessly.
I adjusted my position near the entrance of the VIP area, keeping my stance casual, but alert. Dominic had sent me along tonight, insisting Ezra needed "extra security." Which really meant: keep him from doing something stupid. So far, it looked like my job was going to be impossible.
Ezra’s eyes flickered toward me, his lips curling into a slow, amused smirk. "Look who finally decided to have some fun."
I didn’t react. "I’m working."
"Yeah?" He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, looking me over with lazy interest. "Because you don’t look like you’re working. You look like you’re judging."
I met his gaze evenly. "I don’t judge. I observe."
He let out a low chuckle, fingers tapping against his glass. "And what are you observing, Dauntless?"
"That you’re exactly what people say you are," I said, glancing at the scene around him. The women, the alcohol, the way the cameras outside the VIP section kept snapping pictures at perfect intervals. "A walking PR disaster."
He grinned, clearly entertained. "Damn. You really don’t like me, huh?"
I shrugged. "I don’t care enough to dislike you."
His grin widened. "Liar."
I folded my arms, keeping my expression unreadable. He reached for his drink, taking a slow sip, eyes never leaving mine.
"You think I’m reckless," he mused. "That I’m just some rich asshole who drinks too much and doesn’t care about anything."
I didn’t deny it.
"I think you enjoy making people believe that," I countered.
His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Maybe."
He stood suddenly, moving with an easy confidence, and before I could react, he was in my space. He moved fast, deliberate, but I didn’t flinch, didn’t step back. His hand came up, close, but not touching, as if he was testing my limits. His voice was quieter now, low enough that only I could hear.
"You don’t know a damn thing about me, Grace."
Something in his tone was off.
Before I could place it, he pulled back, flashing another grin, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "But hey, keep observing. Maybe one day, you’ll get it."
He turned away, falling right back into his role, grabbing his drink and letting one of the women curl herself against his side.
The cameras caught it instantly, flashes going off, capturing the moment exactly how it was supposed to be seen—Ezra Carter, the reckless rockstar, completely unbothered, completely untouchable.
But I had seen it.
The crack in the performance.
The exhaustion just beneath the surface.
For the next hour, I stayed in my position, watching.
Ezra drank, flirted, let people touch him, let the media get their headlines.
He played his part, let himself be consumed by it.
But in the moments when he thought no one was watching, the mask would slip.
His smile would falter. His gaze would drift, distant, detached. He looked like someone who was waiting.
Waiting for the night to end.
Waiting for the cameras to turn away.
Waiting for something he wasn’t even sure would come.
Dominic appeared beside me, holding a glass of something dark, untouched. "You look like you’re thinking too hard," he murmured.
I exhaled slowly, still watching Ezra. "He’s not what people think, is he?"
Dominic didn’t answer right away. He just watched Ezra, his expression unreadable. "None of us are."
I turned to him. "You defend him a lot."
Dominic smirked slightly. "He’s my best friend."
I scoffed. "That doesn’t mean he’s not reckless."
"He’s reckless," Dominic admitted. "But he’s not careless."
I frowned. "There’s a difference?"
Dominic’s gaze flicked back to me, something unreadable in his expression. "You judge too easily, Dauntless. One day, you’re going to realize how wrong you are."
I opened my mouth to argue, but he was already walking away, disappearing into the crowd like he belonged there. Like he thrived in it.
And maybe he did.
But Ezra didn’t.
By the time the night started to wind down, the energy in the club had shifted. The media had what they needed. The drinks had been poured. The faces had been seen.
Ezra stood, shaking off the attention, ignoring the hands that tried to pull him back down. His usual grin was gone now, replaced with something duller, something quieter. He didn’t look at me as he passed, didn’t acknowledge anything, just walked straight out of the club and into the night.
I could have followed.
Could have said something.
But I didn’t.
I just watched.
Watched the way his shoulders carried too much weight for someone who was supposed to have everything.
Watched the way he moved like he wanted to disappear, but didn’t know how.
And for the first time, I wondered if maybe—just maybe—I was missing something.