Page 5 of Drowning in Darkness

THREE

STEPHANIE

Beneath the glitter and glamor lies the rot.

I’d forgotten what it was like to be in a sea of people stuffed inside a grand room with tinkling glasses and politics disguised as polite chatter. In another life, I flourished in this environment, but from firsthand experience, I’m aware that too many of these people think themselves untouchable.

I suck in a breath as I step out onto the balcony during the auction being run by Honor. Her mission, her charity, is amazing. I’ve met so many people who have escaped dangerous situations this week alone, many of whom might not have taken the risk without Honor’s help. That woman is a miracle. To be whole and smiling after the horrors she’s suffered is a testament to her enormous heart and to her husband who supported her.

“Are you tired of the glitz and glamor?” a cultured male voice asks.

I spin, my pastel pink ballgown flaring around me, and come face to face with a man. My attention flicks toward the open doors. One scream, and a tidal wave of rich folk would come stampeding in.

“I love the glitz and glamor. It’s the crowds I’m not a fan of,” I explain as he strolls closer.

He’s around six feet tall with blond hair and wearing a suit that fits him like a glove. One of the elite for sure, but even as my hackles rise, I have to remind myself not all men are like the ones in my nightmares. I see danger everywhere, and that’s one reason I wanted out of the institute. I can teach my mind not to react within the confines of a controlled environment, but that’s not truly testing the lessons I can recite by heart. Trauma has rewired every instinct into a fire alarm.

His attention sweeps over me before he stops beside me and tilts his head toward the star-streaked sky. I follow suit, rolling my shoulders. He smells good. Woodsy, understated, and dangerous in the quiet way smoke is.

“Are you not a fan?” I ask.

“It’s a good cause. I’m here to support an important charity, but I’d rather be on my sofa at home chilling with a good book and a glass of wine.”

My lips lift. It’s not the image I’d expected from a man carved from frost and sharp edges. “What book?”

Well, would you look at that? I’m talking to a stranger without internally combusting. Suck on that, brother.

He chuckles. “Right now? The latest Dean Koontz.”

“A mystery fan. I can get on board with that.”

“I took you for a romance girl.”

He sounds like he’s storing that information for the future, which is a little intense for a chance meeting on a balcony.

“If the book is good, regardless of genre, I’ll read it. Mood reader, as the saying goes.”

“What book are you reading right now?”

I’m struggling to place his age, but I think the smattering of salt and pepper hair puts him in his late forties. But he doesn’t make my heart skip a beat, unlike the man who rescued me from hell and now acts like I’m a stranger. Every family gathering only tightens the ache in my chest. I need to stop romanticizing a man who doesn’t even see me.

This harmless flirtation seems like a good step.

“Fantasy romance,” I answer.

“Like fairies?”

I grin. “No, dragons.”

“Dragons,” he murmurs. “Damsel in distress works for you.”

I bristle. I am not a damsel, and I’ll be avoiding distress for the rest of my life. But the book I’m referring to would likely make his head spin because the leading lady hasn’t captured the hearts of one, but four dragons. I resist the urge to share that nugget. I turn my head to make sure the doors remain open. My escape route and call for help sit within reach at a moment’s notice.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you before,” he observes, his attention still fixed on the night sky. The distance of it lends me enough bravery to keep the conversation going.

“I’ve been away,” I explain. In a mental institution. I don’t voice that though, since that would be oversharing. I’m not ashamed of it. I worked damn hard to get healthy again. But that’s difficult to explain to someone untouched by violence.

“You’re missing the auction.”