“Come on.” Jessica took my hand, but I squeezed Harper in my arms, her blanket draped over her little body.
“This…” I shook my head, unable to form coherent words inside of my head. “Has my father all over it.”
My eyes flew around the venue as people laid spilled out over the ground, frantic and panicked. They all witnessed a murder. Multiple even. I couldn’t find Brianna amongst the chaos, and when I tried to seek her out, Jessica was in front of me.
She grabbed me by my elbow and helped me to my feet. “We have to go. Come on.” She brushed the tears from her face as we began running down the aisle with Harper in my arms. I’d leave the rest to Bryant. Right then, I had to be here. I needed no one to touch Harper. To go near her.
We reached a waiting car at the curb, and my steps slowed as my eyes came to Jess.
“Jess? What’s going on?”
Her mouth opens, her eyes falling to Harper. “Do you trust me? Take my hand.”
Snapping myself out of my deep memory, I take Max’s hand and step out of the car. If it’s true, and Max is working for my dad and my father did intentionally release me, I need to know why. I won’t learn that if I fight Max, so for tonight, I’ll play the game.
We make our way down the carpet, my mask securely placed around my eyes. No one knows who I am. Bonus. Screaming and yelling erupt from behind the cameras, just as we’re safely inside the hotel and I turn over my shoulder to see reporters all rushing to snap Bryant and Stacey. Bryant is in a black and white suit, with a blood-red tie.
He looks to die for, but it won’t be me. For once.
Max takes my hand and I follow him toward the two security personnel at the door.
“Names?” they ask, searching the list that’s connected to a clipboard.
Max hands him two tickets and the guard flashes a look between the both of us, shocked. “Go right ahead.”
I should ask what that was about. I’m not supposed to know about Max and my father, but I don’t. Because I can’t be bothered, and I need a damn drink. I’m so tired and drained.
“You go find our table and I’ll grab some drinks.” Max disappears behind me and I twist the piece of paper in my hand.
Table 001.
That can’t be good. That sounds like a table where the president would sit. What the fuck.
Max comes back to me, holding two champagne flutes. “What table are we at?”
I grind my teeth. “Double oh one.”
Max freezes, his fingers flexing over his glass. I watch as some of the condensation slides over his middle finger. “You sure?” He leans over my shoulder to look at the tickets. I bring my glass up to my mouth and tip my head back, sinking the whole lot in one go. I am not here to pussyfoot around anything or anyone tonight. Isa Royal is tired as fuck, so if anyone wants to test me, now would be the time. Fuck what I allowed in the past.
We begin walking toward the front table—that is thankfully empty right now—when Max’s finger connects with mine.
He tugs me into his chest gently, brushing my hair away from my face.
Why do I feel a connection to him?
When you’re fed empty promises all of your life, your soul is always starving.
I take my seat, just as Bryant and Stacey sit opposite us, his eyes remaining on mine. Always on mine. I roll mine to the back of my head and fight the urge to flip him off and drink more instead. The games were always fun when we first met, but games take a lot of stamina, and eventually you get tired.
That’s what I am.
Tired.
“Is this your doing?” I say to Bryant, who seems to be sitting beside Stacey rather comfortably. It should bother me, and it does. There’s an eternal fire burning beneath my skin that was ignited with a match that had Bryant’s initials carved into it. I just have to contain it and not pour gasoline over it.
For now.
He tilts his head. “Why would it be my doing? I hate your father as much as you do.”
I lean forward, placing my flute onto the table. “True, but I broke free from his mental ward, Bryant. Now you’re telling me that he placed me at this table?”
Bryant’s eyes slit. “I don’t give a fuck what you want to believe, Isa.”
Stacey snorts loudly, making my eyes instantly snap to her. “How the hell did you two get married when you fight so much?”
I raise my brows in challenge. “We fucked more, that’s how.”
She chokes on her drink. “Sounds toxic.”
I smirk. “Pure poison, but the thing with poison” —I glare at Bryant— “is it tastes so damn good.”