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When Grant and I arrived at The Wyatt, my gaze immediately began darting around the opulent room, searching for Lincoln amidst the sea of guests. I gripped Grant’s arm as we navigated through the crowd, our progress slow as we stopped to exchange pleasantries. The anticipation gnawed at me, making my heart sink further with every passing minute, especially as dinner time approached.
The grand ballroom was as stunning as ever, illuminated by a dozen crystal chandeliers that cast a soft, shimmering light over the room. Black and gold drapes adorned the walls, complementing the pristine linen tablecloths. A podium at the front was flanked by large flat-screen televisions, broadcasting a live feed of the event.
I sipped my second glass of champagne and barely touched my pear and baby greens salad when the first course was served. Then, as if in slow motion, Lincoln entered the room. My breath caught when I saw him with a petite woman at his side. Her sleek black hair and delicate features made her attractive, but she lacked the striking presence I remembered. An intense wave of jealousy surged through me as Lincoln guided her to their table—just two tables away from ours. Grant was oblivious, engrossed in a conversation with a fellow real estate developer.
I jabbed at a pear in my salad, chewing it slowly as my attention remained fixed on Lincoln and his date. I scrutinized every interaction, every subtle gesture. Was this woman a new girlfriend, or had Lincoln returned to his old patterns? Though he had his hand resting lightly on the back of her chair, he wasn’t touching her in the intimate way he used to with me.
My focus was so intense that it took me a moment to realize Lincoln’s gaze had shifted to me. His expression was a mix of pain and something else I couldn’t quite place. I hastily looked down at my plate, feeling the weight of his stare even as I tried to ignore it. I cleared my throat, interrupting Grant's conversation.
“Are you okay?” Grant asked, his concern evident as he noticed my flushed face.
“I must have put too much pepper in the salad,” I fibbed. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to use the bathroom.”
“Do you want me to go with you?” Grant offered, a hint of playful concern in his voice.
I smiled, trying to keep the conversation light. “I doubt the other women would appreciate your company in there.”
Grant’s smirk widened. “That’s not what I meant.” He stroked my arm briefly before I stood and hurried out of the ballroom.
As I made my way through the crowded space, I felt a mix of relief and anxiety wash over me. The open lobby was a welcome escape from the bustling event. I took a deep breath, savoring the fresh air, but my moment of solace was abruptly interrupted when a firm grip closed around my arm.
I turned sharply, my heart racing. The anger that replaced my initial fear was palpable as I saw Lincoln’s intense gaze. “Don’t touch me,” I hissed.
“Come with me and don’t argue,” he commanded, his voice low and urgent.
“Let me go. You have no right,” I snapped back, struggling against his hold.
“You owe me an explanation,” Lincoln said, his grip tightening painfully on my upper arm. Despite the discomfort, I didn’t resist further. His scent was intoxicating, a reminder of what we once shared, and my body ached with the desire to be close to him again.
He guided me to a fire stairwell, pushing open the heavy steel door. The cool, stark stairwell felt like a world apart from the elegance of the ballroom. Lincoln pressed me gently but firmly against the wall, his eyes burning with an intensity that made my pulse quicken.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“I was invited,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Is Grant Barrington your new boyfriend? What happened to Foster Black?”
“I don’t want Foster,” I said quickly, feeling a pang of frustration.
Lincoln’s jaw clenched, the muscle bulging under his skin. “You’ve already moved on?”
The question hung in the air, charged with unresolved emotions. As I stared at him, the silence between us crackled with the weight of what could have been and what still might be.
“What business is it of yours?” I shot back, trying to mask the vulnerability in my voice.
“This is my family’s charity,” Lincoln said, his voice taut with frustration. “You can’t just barge in and create problems.”
“Screw you. You can’t tell me what to do. We’re not together anymore,” I snapped, my anger and sadness mixing in a volatile cocktail.
“Is that what you want, Erika?” Lincoln’s voice dropped to a rough whisper, his face dangerously close to mine.
“Huh?”
“You want me to screw you?” His breath was warm against my lips, making my pulse race.
“I didn’t say that,” I protested, though my resolve was crumbling.
“Who do you want?” Lincoln’s gaze locked onto mine, his eyes pleading for an answer.
