Page 48 of Her Ruin

“Yes, it was part of our deal, remember?” His tone got more serious. “You’re in my club. That makes you my concern.”

“I thought we agreed that I wasn’t to be watched?” I snapped, irritation spiking through me.

“AndIthought we agreed you would check in.”

I’d been so unsure he would keep his agreement, then so amazed he had, I’d forgotten to keep up my end of the bargain. I’d sent a text message last night when I left. “I forgot to tell you,” I admitted, my voice no more than a mumble.

“I do prefer it if you check in.”

Of course, he did.Control freak.

“Well…” I gripped the phone a little tighter, my shoulders tense. “Consider yourself informed.” I felt a little bit guilty. Ihadforgotten. “I’ve been busy,” I said. Itwasn’tan apology. “There’s a lot to do, the gala is this evening, and…well.”

I expected him to let it go.

But instead, his voice dropped into something lower. Somethingsmug.

“Is that why you’ve been looking for me?”

I froze.

I gulped, a guilty flush staining my cheeks. I looked down, angling myself away from the obvious cameras above me. “I haven’t…”

Zayn hummed. “Liar.”

My jaw clenched, and I forced myself to sound calm. “Zayn, I don’t have time for you today.”

He was so silent I thought he’d hung up, and I started to pull the phone away from my ear when his voice wrapped around me like smoke. “Don’t you?”

I hung up.

I wasn’t doing this. Not with him. Not today. Not when I had an event to pull off. I didn’t have time for flirting.

My breath caught.Flirting.Oh my God, was Iflirtingwith him? Washeflirting with me? This was a game to him; I knew that. He was just being a dick. Playing with me, pretending to be chasing. He did it to keep me at a disadvantage. I was sure of it.

It was all a game to Zayn.

I didn’t want to think of what he’d do if I ever stopped running. No. I didn’t even need to entertain the idea of what would happen if he caught me.

* * *

The evening was perfect.

The kind of flawless execution that event planners lived for—where every carefully curated detail blended together into something that looked completely effortless.

Elegant floral and glass centerpieces adorned the main bar and tables. The flowers were subtle enough not to offend my nostrils, and there wasn’t a lily in sight. Large swaths of linen draped over the ceiling, concealing the nightclub lights and adding a soft ambience to the space. The clinking of champagne glasses blended with the low hum of conversation as Gracemont’s elite moved around the area, their laughter polished, their wealth seemingly effortless.

Waiters in crisp black uniforms weaved seamlessly through the crowd, balancing silver trays of delicate hors d’oeuvres and top-shelf whiskey. The whiskey was courtesy of Zayn; it had been his donation to the gala. Lyndsay said nothing, but she accepted it. The auctioneer was already preparing for the night’s bidding war, and on the far side of the room, a string quartet played something classic and expensive.

The massive ice sculpture of the fiddle-playing cat was the centerpiece at the main entrance and was the focal point of conversation among the guests as they arrived.

The four-course meal was due to be served in the next ten minutes, and the waiters were carefully and respectfully directing guests to their seats.

This was everything I had planned. Everything I had fought for.

And yet, I felt like I was waiting for something to go wrong.

I stood near the entrance, tablet in hand, scanning the room with practiced precision. The guests were happy, and the VIPs were comfortable. The press had already been snapping photos of who was here, who wasn’t, and who was pretending not to see each other.

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