8. Xavier
EIGHT
XAVIER
I leaned against the decorative archway at the edge of the reception hall, scanning the thinning crowd, and I was not thinking about how Sloane's frantic fingers had frozen against the silk lining of my jacket pocket.
I wasn't thinking about the silence that followed, or the horrified look that seized her face in the heartbeat before the cellar door swung open.
I was not thinking about a single second of it.
I wasn't thinking about it.
I was consumed by all of it.
She knew what it was the moment her fingers brushed the velvet, and she'd looked up at me, her dark eyes bracing for impact.
I'd had a handful of seconds to explain before the staffer opened the door and the chance vanished.
I hadn't used a single one of them. I'd been failing to use my time with Sloane Ty for eight years, and tonight was no different.
The brutal truth about the ring was this.
I'd brought it to hand it back to her. I carried the velvet box to the venue because staring at it in my dresser drawer every morning was a torture I wasn't willing to keep inflicting on myself.
If I was going to move on, I needed to cut out every artifact that tied her to my life, and that sapphire ring was the last one.
I was going to hand it back, lock the chapter, and end the haunting.
That had been the plan before the rehearsal dinner, before the sidewalk, before the cellar and the banter about the wine, the stupid debate over vanilla cake, the sound of her real laugh tearing through my defenses.
Somewhere between drafting the plan and surviving tonight, I'd gotten terrified of parting with the ring, and I refused to examine why.
I tracked her across the ballroom.
She hovered near the edge of the dance floor, deep in conversation with Olivia. Her head tilted toward the teenager, her attention anchored to the girl's face. Olivia was explaining something with her hands, and Sloane let out a ringing laugh. I forced my eyes away.
I wondered if she'd been obsessing over the ring since the cellar.
I hadn't stopped. But I couldn't walk over now and claim I'd brought it purely as a symbol of closure, because standing in this glittering room after surviving this evening, the word closure felt like a lie I had no interest in telling.
My phone went off against my thigh. I pulled it out.
A text from Eliza lit up the screen. She was here.
Eliza had made a real sacrifice to be here this weekend.
She'd been negotiating the details of her corporate move to New York, a multi-million-dollar transition, and she'd walked out of the boardroom mid-deal to catch a flight for a wedding she'd nearly missed.
There was no romantic love in our arrangement, no traditional loyalty.
The attraction hadn't survived our first encounter.
But there was an unshakeable respect between us.
We made sacrifices for each other's professional lives, and catching this flight was one of hers.
I glanced back at Sloane, still with Olivia, an easy smile lighting up her face.
I looked down at the text from Eliza.
I left my scotch on a passing tray and went to find the woman I'd come with.
The mansion ran on its own confusing logic of dark corridors and unmarked wings, but I found my suite at the dead end of a mahogany hallway lined with brooding oil paintings. I pushed the heavy door open.
Eliza stood at the marble vanity, washing her hands.
Two sleek overnight bags rested at the foot of the king bed.
She wore a burgundy cocktail dress, her dark hair loose around her shoulders.
She caught my reflection in the mirror as I came in, her mouth pulling into a weary grimace that crinkled the corners of her eyes.
"I'm so sorry," she sighed, reaching for a hand towel.
"The flight got delayed on the tarmac, and then the senior partners refused to let me leave until I signed off on the Stephens acquisition, and by the time my driver finally reached the terminal…
" She turned, dropping the towel on the counter. "I missed the whole thing."
"You got here safe," I said, leaning against the doorframe. "That's the only part that matters."
"I really wanted to watch Violet get married." She let out a frustrated breath. "I wanted to be sitting in that crowd."
"She was stunning," I said. "The ceremony was beautiful. You'd have loved it."
She held my gaze a long moment, her chin dipping in silent thanks. "Thank you for telling me that."
"Tomorrow morning, I'll introduce you to the bride. We've got the estate for the whole weekend."
Her dark brows shot up. "She won't mind the intrusion?"
"She'll be thrilled." Violet had a knack for making room for people, even when she privately had her doubts about them. "You need rest. Did you even eat?"
"Sad catering on the plane," she said, waving it off. "I just need sleep. The jet lag knocked me out the second I got in the town car."
"Then sleep." I crossed the carpet and pressed a brief kiss to her forehead. "I'm going to head back down for a bit. The crowd's thinning, but I'm not ready to call it."
Her eyes fluttered shut, a relieved smile touching her lips. "Okay."
"I'll be quiet when I come back."
"You always are." She was already turning toward the bed, reaching behind her back for the zipper of her dress. "You never wake me."
I pulled the suite door shut and let the latch click into place.
Heading back down the corridor, I nearly walked straight into Violet and Simon.
They were drifting away from the main hall, Simon carrying his jacket over one arm, Violet with her heels dangling from two fingers. She glanced up as I approached, her eyes widening before settling into a warm smile.
"Sneaking out already?" I teased.
"It's late," Simon said. His shoulders were loose, his free hand resting at his side, that unhurried ease he always carried. "And my wife's been standing in stilettos since dawn."
"I have not," Violet argued. "I swapped them out at the reception."
"You swapped them for smaller heels."
"Which proves my point."
I looked at my little sister. Her updo had half-surrendered to gravity, a few loose strands framing her face. Her makeup had softened over the long day, leaving her expression open, every muscle in her face finally at rest.
"Listen to the man and get some sleep," I said.
She closed the distance between us. I opened my arms, and she leaned against my chest, resting her head on my shoulder.
"Thank you for being here tonight, Xav," she mumbled into my lapel. "Thank you for walking me down that aisle. I'm so glad I got to share that with you."
I tightened my arms around her and buried my face in her hair. "Thank you for trusting me enough to let me."
She pulled back. Her eyes were shining, but her chin stayed level.
Simon held out his free hand, and I gripped it. We held the handshake for a respectful moment before he clapped his other hand against my shoulder.
"You're a good man, Xavier," he said.
I stood in the quiet corridor and watched the newlyweds walk away until they disappeared around the corner.
That whole sequence was something their father was supposed to do.
It's an honor reserved for fathers, that slow walk down the aisle, the privilege of handing a daughter you love over to a man who's promised to protect her.
Our father hadn't shown up. He hadn't bothered to call.
And Violet hadn't expected him to do either.
But I'd been there to catch her.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. I checked the screen. It was my mother.
I swiped to answer.
"Xavier." Her aristocratic voice clipped through the speaker, every syllable placed. "Where are you?"
"At Violet's wedding."
She paused, calculating her next angle. "And how is she?"
"She's fine," I said. "The ceremony was beautiful, the reception's winding down, and she's gone up to her suite with her new husband. She's happy."
"Who walked her down the aisle?"
"I did."
The silence on her end turned frigid. "I want to know what her wedding dress looked like. Text me the photographs."
"No."
"Xavier, do not—"
"If you wanted to see the damn dress," I cut her off, my voice dropping low, "you should have shown up to the wedding."
Her tone tightened, vibrating with defensive anger. "She refused to invite me."
"And can you guess why?"
"Violet has always been like this," she snapped. "Endlessly dramatic. Everything had to line up with her vision or she'd self-destruct. We only ever tried to guide her. The same way we shaped your success—"
"Don't do that," I warned.
"—we wanted the same prestige for her. We wanted her to have direction, a career that commanded respect, financial stability—"
"She has financial stability," I fired back. "She built a career from scratch. She's done more in this world than you ever gave her credit for, and you weren't there to see a second of it."
"Because she withheld the invitation."
"Because she knew what garbage you'd say about the flowers. About the venue. About her dress. About every choice she made today. She knew you'd find the one microscopic flaw to tear down, and she chose to protect her joy instead of handing it to you."
"That is not—"
"You told her she was a failure for how she looked," I said, my voice level.
"You told her she failed academically. You told her she was a failure for not landing a traditional corporate job.
Those are your words, Mother. I sat in the room and heard you say them. She's had to hear them her whole life."
A stunned silence swallowed the line.
"What kind of mother weaponizes those words against her own child?" My hand clenched around the phone. "She was different from the mold you demanded. She hacked her own path through the jungle. That's not a failure."
"Since when," she hissed, dropping into a venomous whisper, "did you become Violet's defender?"