Page 9 of Liars and Liaisons

I ignore the suspicion lacing her tone. “It would appear that way.”

“Did I see her kiss you?”

My gaze cuts to hers. “No, you did not.”

“If you say so.” A pause. She toys with the thin rings adorning her thumbs, the gold jewelry bright against her warm brown skin. “Did you kiss her back?”

“If I did, I’m certain it’s the influence of whatever drugs we brought in tonight.” I balance the glass on my knee.

Neither of us mentions the clarity in my words or the bleached color of my knuckles.

We both know I’m stone-cold sober.

“Mmhmm,” Priya murmurs, and I lift my elbow, shoving her off the chair with a single push. She squeaks, grappling for the tie of her red robe as she catches herself on her feet. “Are you planning on spending the entire gala up here by yourself?”

I don’t respond. When I take another drink, my throat feels a bit numb. Ragged from underuse.

The VIP party certainly can’t continue now that it’s been breached. If my brother’s ex-girlfriend recognized anyone or even mentioned who she thought she had seen up here, the ensuing investigations would be ruthless. Bodies would be connected to me, and everything I’d worked to correct would be for naught.

My heart beats an unsteady rhythm against my chest. I need to get home.

I shouldn’t have come here in the first place.

“Sydney would hate to see you like this, you know. Alone and miserable.”

“Sydney isn’there, is she?” My voice is sharper than I intended for it to be as that horrific melody returns, screeching between my ears like the brakes of a freight train.

She chews the corner of her mouth. “I know you blame yourself—”

“Priya, I am aware of your terrible propensity for sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, but I am not interested in listening to you drone on with your opinions. I’d like it if you left now.”

She’s wrong anyway. I don’t blame myself for what happened to Sydney, my once-star pupil, whose life was cut far too short—the way starlets’ lives are so often snuffed out during their primes. I don’t blame myself at all.

I blame my brothers. My father. Everyone she came into contact with during our time together at the university, who warped her sense of self and twisted it for their own gain.

I blameher.

Priya stands and sashays to the door. “Just… think about what I said, okay?”

She pauses, waiting for my response, then disappears when it doesn’t come. I tap my index finger on the tumbler, focusing on the soft tinkling of my nail against the glass. Proof that music can be created on anything—that I’m still capable of making it.

It’s the first time I’ve noticed such an external tune since my arrival at the James estate. When I say I haven’t been able to compose anything, that extends beyond typical instruments—music has been wholly absent from my life for weeks now.

Everything is gray and terrible, and I know some part of me deserves it. For leaving the estate, for coming here against my better judgment, forwanting.

I stare at the door a few moments longer than necessary, reveling in that sensation. It feels good after weeks of lacking desire for anything. Even if it’s for something that will get me in a lot more trouble than it’s probably worth.

After a few minutes, I set the glass on the ground and get to my feet, brushing my hands down the front of my suit jacket. They curl inward, hiding the evidence of my anxiety.

Sliding my mask into place, I step out of the room and start toward the stairs. Tonight might be ruined, but I can still try to salvage it with a little deceit.

The heads of my security detail stand watch outside with the taller and bolder of the two taking a single step in my direction as I pass by. Arsen’s hand brushes mine, and I feel him slip a powdery little pill between my fingers. They close around it, and I continue downstairs without incident.

Notes of smooth, contemporary music assault my senses as I reach the bottom level of the hotel. A deep male voice croons out a new love ballad, and I feel a jolt of envy at the noise, but ignore the emotion.

Curtains frame the archways leading to the ballroom, and I slide to one side, hiding myself behind the deep red velvet material. Guests twirl around the dance floor and chat merrily at the bar across the room, totally unbothered by the crowd around them.

I spot her instantly. She stands at the bar with a tattooed, blue-haired woman and the politician being honored at tonight’s fundraiser. As she speaks, she waves her arms back and forth, deepening her cleavage in a way that immediately draws my attention.

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