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“I’m fine,” I lie.

“No, you’re doing that thing where you pretend you are.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say. “Not here, anyway. I won’t give him the satisfaction of thinking I give a shit.”

Her mouth presses together, and she turns, blocking me from the room with her shoulder, and the small act of kindness almost ruins me. But I don’t need anyone standing in front of me.

Across the ballroom, Fionn holds court while in a circle of donors. He’s leaning into a gray-haired man who’s speaking with both hands.

Fionn nods at something the man says, though I get the feeling he’s not in the slightest bit interested when he checks his watch.

The instant the gold links catch my eye, my ribs tighten, and my breath stalls.

Eilish is called from somewhere near the auction tables, and he looks up to find her.

My body betrays me before my pride can stamp it down. When he glances our way, my spine tingles, my lungs stop working, and every inch of me becomes aware of his gaze.

However, his eyes pass over mine, and he finds Eilish before he crosses the room and juts out his elbow for her to hold on to.

“Eilish,” he says. “Your mother wants you.”

Eilish slides her hand into the crook of his arm and leans into the side of his face. “I know what you did to Sera, and you’ll never get that close to her again.”

Fionn takes a slow inhale. “Call me a liar again, and it’ll be your last mistake.”

I step closer, chin raised, and shoulders pulled back. “Threaten her again, Harrington, and it’ll be your last mistake.”

Even though he looks right at me, his expression stays blank. “Enjoy your evening alone, Miss Tallon. Eilish will be sitting with the Harringtons.”

My stomach turns when he ushers Eilish away. I bring the champagne flute to my lips and drain the whole thing.

The bubbles burn down my throat, but they don’t drown the violence in my chest.

I watch Fionn guide Eilish through the crowd, his hand resting over hers where it lies in the crook of his arm.

The fucking bride and groom-to-be.

Harrington and Kinnane.

An arrangement tied up in lies while I stand alone with an empty glass, and his taste still somewhere in the back of my mouth.

A waiter passes, and I set the flute onto his tray before I smash it against the wall.

Mara finds me before I can work out where to stand without looking abandoned.

“Sera,” she says. “Come and save me from the auction tables before Art bids on another horse portrait in the name of philanthropy.”

I glance over at Eilish, who looks back at me and offers a small smile, her own situation impossible, too.

“Lead the way,” I say.

Mara links her arm through mine and steers us to the far side of the ballroom, where the auction lots sit beneath lamps.

There’s a racecourse weekend package at The Curragh. An old oil painting of the harbor. A private whiskey tasting. Grotesque ruby earrings in a velvet box.

And a photograph showing a private dining room lit by modern light fittings with a stunning harbor view.

The Harrington’s Michelin star restaurant.