Page 85 of After All This Time

"Come on, mingle!" she urges.

"I'm not mingling, Mom. Just let me sit by the bar, and if you need to show me off like some prize pony, you can point, and I'll wave."

"Absolutely not, Amelia. There are people here who haven't seen you since last year and will want to talk to you."

"Awesome," she mouths at me sarcastically before following her mom into the thick of the crowd.

I, on the other hand, do exactly what Amelia said—I head straight for the bar.

They've gone all out again this year, transforming the mansion into something out of a magazine. A full bar sits inside thehouse, staffed like we're in some swanky hotel lounge rather than a private estate. It's excessive, but that's the Sinclair way.

The bartender slides me a drink without a word. Maybe my face says everything he needs to know.

After finishing another glass of whiskey, my gazecatches on Amelia.

She's a goddess dressed like a fallen angel, wrapped in black satin that fits like it was poured over her body, talking to some guy who looks like my polar opposite. Clean-cut, polished, the kind of guy your parents dream about you bringing home. Even I can admit he's a good-looking bastard, but that's not the problem.

It's the way his hand brushes her arm, casual but familiar, like he's used to touching her. Like he has any fucking right to. Then he leans in, pressing a kiss to her cheek, and something inside me snaps.

Jealousy doesn't just hit—it detonates.

I don't like it.

But I don't move.

Instead, I sit there, my grip tightening around the glass in my hand, watching her like a man starved.

My mind races with thoughts that shouldn't even exist. Thoughts of how that dress would feel bunched in my fists, how her skin would taste under my lips, all the filthy promises I'd whisper in her ear with all these rich, oblivious assholes standing around pretending they matter more than they do

The whiskey burns as it slides down my throat, but it's a dull whisper compared to the fire crawling under my skin.

Chapter 33

Amelia

"It must be so hard living so far away from your family."

"I always thought ballet dancers were tall and lean."

"Did you know only three percent of dancers make it professionally?"

"What are you going to do when you get a real job?"

Somebody fucking shoot me.

I'm honestly ecstatic to be away from my mom and David—growing up with them hasn't exactly been a picture-perfect upbringing. And so what if I'm short and curvy? Sure, I'm not the thinnest person in the world, but I fill out a tutu just fine. Perfectly, in fact. And yes, Camilla, I'm painfully aware that only three percent of dancers make it professionally—thanks for the reminder. But maybe I'll just work harder than anyone else and land myself in that three percent so ballet remains my real job.

Because you see, Camilla, I'd rather pour my blood, sweat, and tears into that dream than live off a rich, too-old-to-function, and probably-can't-get-an-erection husband until he finally kicks the bucket. Then what? Pack my bags, move to the Caribbean, and start sleeping with a boy toy half my age because I'll have bankrolled myself into looking at least a decade younger anyway, with enough money left over to keep him satisfied and quiet.

Camilla Bancroft is taking the brunt of my worst thoughts right now, but it's not just her. It's almost everyone here.

God, these people drive me fucking crazy.

My mom never used to be one of them, but as time goes on, she's slipping further into their world. The carefree woman she used to be—the one who'd dance barefoot in the living room and sing along to the radio even though she couldn't hold a tune—feels like a distant memory.

She wasn't always like this. When she was with my dad, it was different. He would've lived in a shoebox if it meant we were happy, and for a long time, I thought my mom felt the same way. But over the years, little cracks started to show. A few comments here and there, not that I can remember much, but a sigh when we'd drive by a bigger house, a casual remark about what she "deserved." Things I didn't think much of at the time but now feel like puzzle pieces I should've put together sooner.

"Amelia Jackson. It's been a minute." The voice pulls me out of my thoughts, and I turn to face Bryce Matthews. His blue eyes are darker than I remember, deep and rich in shade—the complete opposite of Tobias's.

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