Page 16 of A Vicious Love

My fingers curled at my side. “Okay.”

His eyes narrowed, almost as if my agreement irritated him too. “Don’t follow me around asking for shit every ten seconds.”

Heat climbed my throat. “I won’t.”

Jamison didn’t say anything else. He turned and walked toward the main room with two guards behind him, already raising his phone again.

I stood in the entry hall with my umbrella still folded in my hand.

For a second, I forgot how to move.

Then someone from the event staff approached with a smile that was far too gentle.

“Miss Bellemere, may I take that for you?”

I looked down at the umbrella.

“Yes. Sorry. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.”

She took it, and I gave her the kind of smile that told strangers I was fine because I could not survive the alternative.

The main room stretched out beyond a pair of open doors. Tall windows. A long bar. Firelight and chandeliers. Dynasty families gathered in glossy clusters, speaking quietly under mounted antlers and garlands of winter greenery.

Beyond the windows, the terrace overlooked the resort grounds, where lanterns had been strung between old trees.

Jamison stood near the bar.

Whiskey was already in his hand.

That made sense. Whiskey always reached him faster than I did.

I walked in slowly, keeping my shoulders relaxed and my chin lifted. It was important to look as though I had meant to arrive separately.

I found Emmie near the fireplace with Marcel and Harrison. Relief moved through me so fast.

“Sienna,” Emmie said when she saw me. Her face brightened in a real way, and then softened when she must have read something on mine. “Come here.”

Harrison lifted his glass. “Sunshine survives another Crow entrance.”

“Barely,” Marcel said dryly, glancing toward Jamison.

I tried to laugh before anyone thought I needed rescuing.

“He’s busy tonight,” I said.

Emmie squeezed my hand. “Stay with us for a while.”

For a little bit, the night almost became good.

Marcel told me about Bellweather’s history, how the old resort had once hosted private political negotiations under the cover of hunting weekends. Emmie asked about ballet, and when I told her my rehearsals were getting longer because of the winter gala piece, she listened as if every detail mattered.

“Are you still doing the turn sequence from the last performance?” she asked.

“A harder version,” I said, unable to hide my excitement. “Madame Aveline added another traveling turn and then a pause on pointe before the fall. She said if I can hold it long enough, the audience will feel the break before the music does.”

Emmie asked what the costume would look like. Marcel asked how many performances had sold out. Harrison demanded to know whether ballet people hissed at one another backstage the way opera people did, and I spent several minutes trying to explain that dancers were terrifying in a more silent way.