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“Well, if it isn’t little miss waitress,” a voice sneers beside me.
I turn, dazed, staring blankly at a man with a three o’clock shadow and a lime in his gin and tonic. He looks vaguely familiar, but my mind is too scrambled to place him.
Honestly, the man could be the Easter Bunny, and I wouldn’t blink. My gaze is still locked on Brian, watching his every step as he disappears into the crowd, heading toward the stage.
Then, with a crooked smile and a ridiculously oversized watch that practically screams,I’m important,he says, “Youshould’ve fucked your way into my good graces when you had the chance.”
His words hit like a hard slap, knocking the wind right out of me. My pulse skyrockets into overdrive, and I realize who he is and how much I despise the guy.
It’s him. The sleaze bucket from Salvatore’s. The one who couldn’t stop dropping his name like bird crap, splattering it all over our very brief conversation.
Trent Mercer. Of Mercer Media.
And right about now, another helping of his shit is the last thing I need. Especially with my heart in shambles over Brian.
I spin on my heel, ready to walk away, to put as much distance between us as possible. But his hand snaps out, looping around my arm, his grip iron tight.
“Not so fast, Ms. Spenser. Or should I say Sydney Sun?”
CHAPTER 45
Jules
What the hell is going on? Has everyone lost their minds tonight? If this guy thinks he can manhandle me at the Excellence Gala, he’s in for a nasty surprise—and a swift kick to the balls.
I jerk my arm back, ready to let him have it, but he raises his hands, sloshing his drink in the process, eyes wide with panic. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to,fuck?—”
The alarm in his voice makes me pause. And I can’t just walk away. He knows who I am, heads and tails of my Spenser/Sun identity crisis, and I need to know how.
My voice drops to just above a whisper. “Why did you call me Sydney Sun?”
He blinks, genuinely confused. “Because that’s who you are.” When I glare, waiting for more, he sighs and adds, “I do own a global media conglomerate. People talk. Especially the ones from our latest acquisition, theManhattan Herald.”
The weight of his words sink in.
He lets out a long, weary breath, and by the heavy bagsunder his eyes, it’s clear he’s about to offload a burden that’s been wearing him down. “Look, I’m in a twelve-step program.” His voice wavers, cracking under the pressure. “And I’m botching this all to hell, but I’m trying to apologize.”
My eyes immediately dart to the glass he’s clutching like a lifeline.
He follows my eyes, lifting the glass with a faint, self-deprecating smile. “Gin and tonic. Sans the gin. I keep the lime in there so people stop trying to buy me drinks.” He takes a sip, grimacing. “Tastes like piss, by the way.”
“Is that whyI should’ve fucked you when I had the chance?” I scoff, crossing my arms.
He winces, the smirk wiped clean off his face. “That was...a crude attempt at humor. I don’t usually have to try. People kiss my ass, laugh at my jokes, all without me lifting a finger. Except for you...”
His words trail off, and realization hits me like a truck. This isn’t about power or manipulation. There’s no game here, no strategy. It’s raw, messy, unpolished remorse—laid bare.
Straightening his suit, he clears his throat. “I’m sorry.”
“You should be,” I quip back, a little sharper than intended. But then I soften. “And you’re forgiven.” I step closer, lowering my voice. “And you’ve got this.One day at a time.”
His eyes search mine. “You know about addiction?”
I nod, my throat tightening. “A little. My family thinks I’m oblivious, that I don’t know my sister’s an addict. She’ll do anything for a hit. We call her Hurricane Angi because she’ll damn near destroy everything and everyone to get what she needs. I’ve volunteered with NA for years.”
Slowly, he nods, a flicker of understanding crossing his face. “I’mso desperate for a drink right now that if you spilled your glass, it’d take everything in me not to lick it off your shoes.”
“If you ever need someone to talk to...”
