I felt close to nuclear explosion.
Frustrated.
Humiliated.
Fuming.
Sam stared at me, waiting for me to call him out on his bullshit.
“Since when do you date?” Hunter changed the topic, obviously unamused by Sam’s story.
“Since I changed my mind about marriage.”
“You changed your mind about marriage?” Cillian sneered at him, skepticism all but leaking from his cold gaze. My older brother played with the golden band of his wedding ring as he spoke. “Riveting. I clearly remember you giving me a one-hour speech about the merits of staying single shortly before I married Persephone. Should I bill you for my lost time?”
“People change.” Sam’s eyes turned into slits. “You should know that better than anyone.”
“People, yes. Monsters, no.”
“So is Becca the one?” Hunter goaded, and I wanted to throw up all of a sudden. Because Sam was exactly the kind of psychopath to marry someone else just to spite me. I wouldn’t put it past him. Buy into the idea that he could be happy with a replica of me and forget about the real thing.
Sam looked down at Becca, tugging her close.
“I hope so,” he whispered, placing a chaste kiss to her mouth. “She has everything I look for in a woman. Beautiful, well-educated, and honest. Bonus points: her family is not a complete mess.”
Jealousy made way to anger, and I groaned, turning my back to Sam and Becca, looking directly at Hunter and Cillian.
“Anyway, I delivered the message Mother sent me here for. Do with it what you will. Enjoy your evening.”
With that, I stormed off. I could faintly hear my brothers calling Sam a jackass behind my back, which only served to make me feel worse. Like a charity case. A silly, naïve girl incapable of standing up for herself in front of the big bad wolf.
I never felt a part of them anyway. Cillian, Hunter, and Sam had their own friendship going, and Persephone and Sailor were a part of it because they were a part of my brothers. Emmabelle and I were always pushed aside, associated but not initiated into their pseudo-secret society.
I spent the rest of the night being the perfect daughter to my mother. I listened to stale jokes, laughed, clutched my pearls whenever was appropriate during longwinded, boring stories, took pictures with donors, and even introduced my mother onstage when it was time for her to deliver her speech.
No one dared to ask where Gerald Fitzpatrick was. Not even one soul. The unspoken assumption was that my parents were going through something, as they always did, and most guests thought nothing of it. This was simply the way Jane and Gerald Fitzpatrick were.
One piece of expensive jewelry and a vacation away from reconciliation.
Throughout the night, I refused to steal glances at Sam and Becca, no matter how hot the temptation burned in me.
It was unlike him to stick around for more than ten minutes at a charity event.
It was even more unlike him to show up with a date.
It was obvious this was designed to torture me, and I refused to give him the pleasure of agreeing to be tortured.
Finally, when the clock hit midnight, I told my mother I was heading home.
“I have an early shift tomorrow. I’ll catch up with you in the morning. It was a lovely event.” I kissed her cold cheek, heading to the cloakroom to grab my coat, clutching the wrinkled ticket to hand the clerk in exchange for my Armani jacket. When I reached the elaborate oak counter, it was empty.
The door behind was closed.
Merde.
I looked around, trying to find an available staff member to help me out. When none were found, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I wasn’t going to stick around, waiting to be cornered by Sam and Becca, like a sitting duck. I rounded the counter and flung the door to the cloakroom open, taking a step inside.
I came to a halt immediately.
“Oh my gosh!” I heard a screech. It came from Becca’s mouth. The first time I’d heard her voice. Shrill and nasally. I blinked away my shock, letting the scene in front of me register.
Becca was splayed across a mountain of coats and blazers, her dress pushed up her thighs—much like mine was that cursed Halloween night—with Sam standing a few feet from her, a hand on his zipper. The heat around my eyes signaled tears were on their way, and I forced myself to swallow the bile rising in my throat.
You are twenty-seven years old. Don’t you dare cry.
“My, my. You give tacky a whole new meaning, don’t you, Mr. Brennan.” I pinched my lips, fixing my eyes on Sam, careful to keep Becca’s name out of my mouth. No matter how much I despised her by association, it wasn’t her fault. “You know, Samuel, that’s what separates the nouveau riche from true aristocrats. Your impartialness to knockoffs. Couldn’t get your hands on the real thing, so you decided to settle for a replica.” I smiled sweetly.