Maeve’s POV
Alexander's annual gala is the kind of event where fortunes are made and reputations destroyed before dessert arrives.
Every major player in New York crammed into one ballroom. Power concentrated so densely it's practically radioactive.
I'm in a revenge dress. Blood red silk that cost more than my entire Princeton wardrobe. The kind that stops traffic and starts rumors and makes ex-husbands regret every terrible decision.
Hair up in some complicated thing that took my stylist an hour. Diamonds dripping from my neck, my ears, my wrists. My mother's collection—Emily Welch's legacy that I'm wearing like armor.
I look like I own the city. Because technically, I do.
Except I feel like I'm one wrong move from total collapse. Like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's life and the real owner's about to show up and expose me as a fraud.
Caelen's been distant for three days. Hasn't said anything directly—he's too controlled for that, too careful with his words. But the distance is there, obvious as fuck to anyone paying attention.
The way he doesn't touch me as casually anymore. How his hand doesn't automatically find my lower back when we're in meetings. How his smiles don't quite reach his eyes when he looks at me.
The easy banter we had—gone. The late-night conversations—shortened. The way he used to text me random observations about board members—radio silence.
It's killing me. Slowly. Methodically. Like death by a thousand paper cuts that nobody else can see.
I want to tell him about Kael. Need to tell him that we fucked on my desk like emotionally damaged idiots with zero impulse control.
The confession sits in my throat constantly. During breakfast when he's distant but polite. During meetings when he won't quite meet my eyes. During dinners that feel like performance art instead of actual connection.
But terror keeps my mouth shut. Physical fear lodged in my throat like something solid I can't swallow.
What if he leaves? What if this thing we're building—this honest, terrifying, real thing—disappears because I couldn't keep my shit together for five minutes around my ex?
Everything's finally falling into place with Caelen. The engagement party's in two days. We're building something that feels sustainable, healthy, like actual partnership instead of transaction.
And here I am about to blow it up by admitting I slept with the one person we both despise.
The internal negotiation is constant, obsessive: Tell him now before someone else does. Tell him after the party when things are more settled. Don't tell him at all and hope the security footage mysteriously disappears.
Each option worse than the last.
The gala's in full swing by the time I arrive. Orchestra playing something expensive and classical that I should probably recognize. Champagne flowing like water. Deals being made in corners while spouses pretend not to notice their partners networking with surgical precision.
Alexander's holding court near the bar. My father—still weird to think that—surrounded by executives and politicians who hang on his every word.
He catches my eye. Nods approval at the dress. The message clear: You look like a Welch. You look like you belong here.
Fake it till you make it, I guess.
Then I see him. Kael. Across the ballroom like some gothic nightmare I can't escape.
He looks almost normal again. Showered, shaved, sober. The polished billionaire heir costume back in place after three days of looking like death warmed over.
But there's something hollow in his eyes. Something fundamentally broken that expensive tailoring can't hide. Like he's a mannequin someone dressed up and posed but forgot to animate.
He's alone. No Gia—they're done, engagement dissolved publicly. No family—he walked out on them, supposedly. No entourage of yes-men and hangers-on.
Just him in a tux, looking lost in a room full of sharks who'd eat him alive if they smelled weakness.
Several people are already circling. Sensing blood in the water. The Dareth name is toxic now, and everyone wants to be the one who delivers the final blow.
He approaches me anyway. Either brave or stupid—jury's still out.
The ballroom's watching. I can feel eyes tracking his movement toward me. Speculation already forming about what the bankrupt Dareth heir wants with the Welch heiress.
"You look beautiful."
I do. I know it. Spent three hours and a small fortune getting ready specifically to look devastating. Doesn't mean I need him to confirm it.
"Where's Caelen?" Something in his tone makes my spine stiffen. Hope. Dangerous fucking hope like he thinks his absence means something.
"Not here." Yet. I saw him arrive twenty minutes ago, saw his face when he spotted me across the room.
That look—devastation before he masked it with that controlled expression he wears like armor. The hurt flickering in his eyes for half a second before he shoved it down.
Then he disappeared into the crowd. Probably avoiding me. Can't even blame him after three days of my guilt radiating like toxic waste.
"Dance with me," Kael says. Not a question. A statement. Like he still has rights to my time, my body, my attention.
I should say no. Should walk away. Should tell him to fuck off and find someone else to pathetically orbit.
"One dance."
The words come out before my brain catches up. Muscle memory overriding common sense.
We move to the dance floor. The orchestra's playing a waltz—something traditional and expensive that probably costs more per minute than most people's rent.
Old muscle memory kicks in immediately. Our bodies know each other, move together without conscious thought. Three years of practice doesn't just disappear because you want it to.
His hand on my waist feels familiar. Wrong. Comfortable in ways that make me hate myself.
We fit together perfectly. Always have. That's never been our problem.
"I've changed," he says quietly against my ear. Close enough I can smell his cologne—the same one from Princeton, from our engagement, from three days ago on my desk.
"I'm building something real. No family, no schemes. Just me."
The lies taste familiar too. Pretty packaging on the same old bullshit I've heard a thousand times.
"Just us, if you'll—"
He stops. Completely freezes mid-sentence. Mid-step. Like someone hit pause on his entire system.
Because Caelen just entered the main ballroom. And his face when he sees me in Kael's arms—devastation before he masks it.
Pure, unfiltered hurt that he shoves down so fast I almost miss it. Almost. But I've been watching him for three days, cataloging every micro-expression, and I catch it.
The distance between us feels like miles. Like I'm watching him from the wrong end of a telescope, everything distorted and unreachable.
He's been distant for three days. I thought maybe I was paranoid, maybe I was projecting guilt onto innocent interactions.
Nope. He knew. Somehow he fucking knew.
And I just confirmed every terrible suspicion by dancing with Kael in front of everyone who matters.
Caelen seems to snap. Everything he's been holding in for three days—maybe longer—suddenly detonating in the middle of Alexander's pristine gala.
He crosses the ballroom in six strides. Controlled fury in every step. Dangerous in ways that make other people move out of his path automatically, survival instinct kicking in.
The crowd parts like he's Moses and they're the Red Sea. Nobody wants to be collateral damage when Caelen Rhys is in destroy mode.
"Can you finally decide who you love?" His voice is low. Deadly. The kind of quiet that's worse than shouting. "I know everything about you two."
My heart stops. Literally stops beating for several seconds. Time slows to syrup-thick crawl.
He knows. He knows about the desk, the sex, the monumental fuckup I've been hiding like a coward for three days.
"What's all this effort for?" He's looking at me like I'm a stranger. Like the woman he's been building something with doesn't exist, never existed, was always just fantasy. "So you can dance with that jerk in front of everyone?"
His voice doesn't rise. Doesn't crack. That controlled fury that's infinitely more devastating than rage.
The ballroom's gone silent. Every conversation stopped. Every major player in New York watching this trainwreck in real time.
Tomorrow's headlines write themselves.
Caelen pulls himself together. Visible effort. Muscles tensing as he shoves everything back down into whatever compartment he keeps his emotions locked in.
Then he turns. Heads for the door with that controlled stride that doesn't quite hide the hurt underneath.
Walking away. From me. From us. From everything we were building.
And I'm frozen. Literally cannot move. Watching the only honest thing in my life disappear through those doors.