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I didn’t want to, though. There wasn’t a single part of me that wanted to go to the stupid fucking charity event tonight. I wanted to sit in my room and cry and try to get my life under control, but I wasn’t allowed to do that.
“How far along do you think you are?” she asked, her voice low as she pulled me toward the closet.
I watched as she started furiously going through my closet. She pulled out option after option, throwing them on my bed behind her as if we were children having a fashion show. “The last test I took said I should be about eleven weeks,” I mumbled.
Eleven weeks set me back to roughly the first night. The night we’d spent on his sailboat. The first fucking time.
I could see it in the mirror. The curve of my stomach, even though it was slight. I’d seen it for the last week and a half. I’d panicked when Adrian had undressed me the other night, worried sick that he’d notice it and question it. But he hadn’t.
“That one,” I said as Emily held up one of my least favorite dresses. Long and black and A-line, with a lace-up back. It would work. “That should fit.”
————
“Where have youbeen?”
Adrian stood in front of me, looking down at me as I leaned against the wall of the ballroom. He looked downright magnetic in his maroon and black tux, but the worried green eyes that bore into me made me want to peel my gaze from him. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve just been dealing with a lot.”
“So have I,” he insisted. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t have space for you. You’re blanking me.”
“I’m not trying to.”Liar. Fucking liar.
Music filled the empty space for far too long. “Do you not want this anymore?”
I snapped my gaze back to him.How the fuck can he ask me that?“What?” I croaked, my voice cracking before I’d even had the chance to steady myself. My emotions had been all over the place for weeks now, and I’d grown almost accustomed to not having a solid grasp on when they would switch or why, but right then, I felt betrayed by my own body. “I want you. I’ve always fucking wanted you.”
“Then talk to me,” he begged. “You disappeared for four fucking days, Ava. You left without much of an explanation. I’ve been worried sick.”
Nausea swirled as I realized exactly where his mind had gone, exactly what he’d been through before. At least with Jan, he’d gotten a phone call from the police, but she had been his wife—he would have been her emergency contact.
If something happened to me, he’d have to hear it through the grapevine.
Dad’s eyes met mine across the room as he stood beside a man I vaguely recognized, two whiskeys deep in conversation. His brows furrowed.
“Can we talk somewhere private?” I asked, my voice breaking yet again and fucking betraying me.
He followed my gaze, and everything about him changed. He turned more casual, plastering a friendly smile on his face, and mumbled a quick, “Yeah.”
And then he was moving.
I waited until Dad’s eyes left me to slink around the corner after Adrian.
The hallway was filled with staff from his company. Men and women dressed to the nines in tuxedos wandered with trays full of food, bottles of champagne, checklists, and cases of soft drinks. I followed Adrian in dead silence as he turned another corner, and then another, leading me further and further away.
The panic only rose.
He opened a door for a stairwell and held it open for me, and we slipped inside, finally finding a bit of privacy and silence.
“Talk,” he said. “This is as private as we’re going to find.”
My lower lip shook as I tried to find the right words, but my mind was moving at lightspeed, leaving my body in the dust. There were so many things I wanted to say. So many things Ineededto say. But they wouldn’t form coherent words, wouldn’t come together to form a sentence.
I moved toward him, looking for some sort of security, some sort of support, but he took a step back.
“Please,” I begged.
“Ava,” he sighed, his hands coming to rest on my shoulders. “I’m not just here to comfort you when you’re feeling overwhelmed. You have to fucking talk to me.”
My heart raced in my chest, my skin chilling, and chilling, and chilling—until I realized that wasn’t actually a chill, it was a sheen of sweat. “I’m sorry,” I sobbed, and oh, God, when had the tears started?Am I ruining my makeup? Dad’s going to notice.“I’m sorry. Please. I’m sorry.”
