4. Sloane
FOUR
SLOANE
The rehearsal dinner had finally arrived. And by the time I dragged myself back to my apartment to change, I'd been on my aching feet for hours.
I started my morning with the floral arrangements, making sure the install crew showed up on schedule, the hidden wires held, and the cascading greenery draped at the angle I'd specified.
I paced the banquet hall twice, once to audit the centerpieces and again to scrutinize the lighting, and both times the setup checked out.
After that I drove out to the estate, walked through every reserved guest suite, cross-referenced the seating layout against the table settings, and flagged two minor disasters with the event coordinator, both handled before I headed out.
Violet's wedding was a day away, and I was determined to deliver every piece of magic I'd promised her.
But under all that frantic productivity, like a live wire, one thought ate at me.
Tonight I was going to stand in the same room as Xavier.
I'd bought my dress weeks ago, a deep sapphire silk that draped off one shoulder and flowed like liquid when I walked.
My arms were bare, showing off my scattered mosaic of tattoos.
They were tiny pieces of art I'd collected over the years without any master plan, a gallery of things I needed to carry on my skin.
I'd styled my hair the day before, and the sleek blowout hadn't budged.
I put on my lashes, double-checked my reflection, and lingered in front of the mirror a few seconds longer than I needed to.
I grabbed my keys and got in the car.
The banquet hall looked better than I'd dared hope, and my standards had been specific to begin with, which was saying something.
The faux ivy crawled up the brick walls in the organic configuration I'd mapped out, and paired with the fresh blooms, it gave the cavernous room a breathing warmth that felt grown instead of staged.
I caught the scent of flowers at the entryway.
I paused at the threshold just to take it in, letting myself have a rare moment of pride, because I'd built this and it was stunning.
Violet was already holding court when I walked in.
Simon and Olivia stood at her side, surrounded by a vibrant sea of everyone who mattered: lifelong friends and publishing colleagues she'd built real bonds with over the years.
I'd barely made it three steps onto the hardwood before Violet's eyes locked onto mine.
She practically sprinted across the room and threw her arms around my neck.
"Thank you," she breathed into my shoulder, her voice thick. "Thank you, thank you, thank you. I mean it, Sloane. Everything's flawless. You brought this whole vision to life."
I squeezed her back hard before stepping away. "You definitely need to pay me."
She blinked, stunned.
"You should seriously consider it," I deadpanned. "I can draft a proper, itemized invoice."
She smacked my bare arm. "You did this out of love, you menace."
"I'm pretty sure my love wasn't in the floral budget."
She swatted at me again, a breathless laugh escaping, and I mirrored her grin.
Then Olivia was bolting toward me with both arms out, and I caught her. The teenager squeezed me with a fierce loyalty, and as I hugged her back, I marveled at this girl who was about to become Violet's niece but had already turned into mine.
"Uncle Simon finally said yes to the tattoo!" she announced, her whole face lighting up the room.
I arched a skeptical eyebrow. "Did he now."
"For my eighteenth birthday. He gave me a hard yes."
I gave her a knowing look. "Your eighteenth birthday is still a few years off, kid. By the time it rolls around, the urge might slip your mind."
She shook her head with stubborn teenage conviction. "It won't. I want a lot of things in life, and a tattoo's permanently on the list. I've been thinking about it forever."
Her gaze dropped to my bare arms, tracing the scattered black ink from my wrists up to my shoulders, reading the thin lines like a secret language. She went quiet for a long moment, which wasn't like her.
"Your arms inspire me," she said. "It's like looking at a museum of beautiful art."
I glanced down at my own skin, at the armor I'd etched onto myself over the years, and a guarded part of me softened.
"Come sit with me," I said.
Olivia grabbed my hand and towed me toward a specific table like she'd memorized the floor plan. She pointed at our place cards, and I stared at the calligraphy, struck quiet for a second.
"You set up this seating arrangement?" she guessed, a smug grin pulling at her mouth.
"I did."
Her jaw dropped in mock outrage. "Why'd you stick us together?"
"Because you're the best company at this whole party."
Her chin tipped up, a delighted smile fighting through the fake offense. "Better company than Violet?"
"Violet's dealing with a husband. Her attention's booked." I set my water glass down on the linen. "Everyone else at this table works in corporate publishing. You know what they're going to talk about?"
"Publishing?" she guessed, unimpressed.
"All night."
Olivia let out a bright peal of laughter. "You honestly think Violet's boring?"
I weighed the question with exaggerated seriousness. "Her beauty distracts from how dull she is. Never fall for a pretty face, Olivia. It's a trap."
She dissolved into giggles.
Across the room, Simon's best man stood, signaling the shift from cocktail hour to dinner. Chairs scraped against the floorboards, and the conversations dropped to a low murmur. I settled into my chair and swept my gaze across the crowd, picking out familiar faces.
Xavier still hadn't arrived.
Our table seated four: Olivia, me, and two of Violet's eccentric publishing colleagues who were talking over each other, neither of them listening to a word. I smoothed my napkin over my lap, topped off my water glass, and watched the room settle.
Then the heavy oak doors at the far end of the hall swung open.
Everyone glanced over, expecting a parade of caterers.
Xavier walked in.
I grabbed my water glass and took a frantic gulp to remember how to swallow, then made myself set it down.
I darted a glance around my table. Olivia was giggling at a joke the publishing editor had made.
The man to my left was buried in the gold-foiled menu.
No one else in the room had a reason to panic.
He headed straight for Violet. She bolted out of her chair, and he swallowed her in a hug. She leaned into his chest, and he bent to fit her, radiating a protective warmth, and it ached to watch them. He shook Simon's hand, murmured something low, and the guests closest to him burst out laughing.
I couldn't hear a single syllable. I'd assigned myself this isolated seat as a reward, a quiet corner where I could finally breathe after managing every crisis of the day. Now Xavier Paige stood twenty feet away, and I couldn't even hear his voice.
I wanted to hear his voice so badly it hurt.
He wore a tailored black suit that fit him like a weapon. His dark hair was pushed back, except for one stubborn curl that had broken ranks to rest against his forehead.
He looked divine.
It was the only word that surfaced, and the truth of it sat like a stone in my chest. I had nowhere to put the realization, no one to tell, and nothing to do with the suffocating fact that it was true.
I took another sip of ice water.
A waiter led him toward his table.
I stared hard at the condensation dripping down my glass.
When I finally pulled my gaze up, he was already watching me.
My pulse stumbled, a crush I hadn't braced for.
I'd spent eight years hauling around the guilt of what I'd done to him, building a whole new life over the wreckage, and here he was.
He stood across the crowded room, his dark eyes locked on mine.
I stared back, bracing for the blow I expected to find.
I found nothing.
There was no burning contempt, no leftover warmth.
His face gave nothing back, his eyes steady, his chin resting at the same relaxed angle it had a moment before.
He looked at me, registered that I existed, and then looked away, shifting his attention to the centerpiece, to his dinner plate, to anywhere that wasn't me.
My hand wasn't quite steady where it rested on the table.
The dinner rolled on, and the speeches began.
Violet wept openly, her chin trembling and her bare shoulders shaking while Simon anchored her hand to his and never looked away from whoever held the microphone.
I watched Simon's devotion, his refusal to look anywhere else, and then dropped my gaze back to my untouched wine.
Violet's senior editor gave a charming toast. Olivia delivered a witty speech she'd clearly rehearsed for weeks while pretending she'd winged it.
It landed, and I studied Violet's face through the whole thing.
Her eyes were shining, her lips pressed into that tight line she used when she was fighting not to cry and already losing.
I kept my eyes on the tablecloth whenever I wasn't watching the speakers.
Once the plates were cleared, the guests rose, and the room fractured into clusters, that lingering phase where the meal's over but the night won't end. Olivia wandered off toward a friend near the floor-to-ceiling windows. The publishing crowd drifted to the open bar. I stayed in my chair.
I pulled out my phone and scrolled through social media like the screen held a crisis only I could handle.
I liked photos I didn't look at. I skimmed captions I couldn't process.
I was sitting inside a stunning room I'd designed myself, staring at a glowing screen, fighting a war just to keep my head down.
"It's been a long time."
His voice came low over my left shoulder, so close I felt the vibration against my skin before my brain caught the words. I jumped and spun around.
Xavier stood right behind my chair.
I scrambled to my feet. Even in four-inch heels, he towered over me, and I was no short woman.