Page 73 of Fractured Loyalties
The club soda sweats against my fingers like it knows something I don’t.
Celeste laughs at something across the table—too loud, too fast—and I echo it with a smile that doesn't touch anything important.
I glance at the drink again. Lime wedge floating like a surrender flag. I don't pick it up this time. My hands are too still.
Across from me, Alec is explaining something to the tech assistant—something about vendor turnover rates and sourcing reliable suppliers for diagnostic equipment. His voice is smooth, but my focus isn’t on the words.
It’s on the way his arm brushes the back of Celeste’s chair when he shifts. The way his fingers tap once, twice on the rim of his glass before he speaks. It’s casual. Familiar. But everything tonight feels like it’s been calibrated with just enough pressure to seem harmless.
There’s a mirror behind him, angled above the bar.
In it, I can see the front windows. The door. The street.
But I can’t see Elias.
And that unsettles me more than if I could.
Because I know he’s there. I feel it in the hairs on my neck. In the pulse just beneath my jaw. In the way the air on my skin feels thicker than it should in a building full of flickering votives and warm bodies.
"Hey," Celeste says, leaning in. Her voice is softer now, a thread meant only for me. "You doing okay?"
I nod too quickly. "Yeah. Just...overstimulated."
She gives a knowing smile, but her eyes flick briefly to my neck again. I resist the urge to adjust my collar.
"Glad you came," she says. "I wasn’t sure you would."
"I almost didn’t."
She studies me for a beat, then smirks slightly. "You know, this is supposed to be a team dinner—but I was secretly hoping you’d drag your 'drop dead gorgeous' along anyway. For morale. Maybe let us bask in his ‘yes-I-might-bury-a-body for Mara’ jawline."
I cover my mouth to keep the laugh from spilling. "Celeste."
"What? You can’t bring someone like that into the clinic and then act like we’re not all going to talk about it."
I shake my head, but there’s warmth behind the eye-roll.
"You’re impossible," I murmur.
"And you’re selfish. You have a tall, dark, broody shadow with cheekbones that could punch God—and you don’t even share."
I give her foot a nudge under the table. "Stop."
“I think he’d be an excellent addition to Human Resources.”
“And by ‘resources’ you mean…?”
“Visual morale.”
“You’re the worst,” I say, shaking my head.
“I’m the best. You’re just afraid to admit it.” She grins and leans back, smug and satisfied. "Just saying, if you ever decide toaccidentally lock him in the break room for an hour, I call first dibs."
I laugh again—softer this time, but it feels like something real.
She lets it hang there; she doesn’t press further. Just watches me, eyes dancing like she knows more than she’s saying.
A waiter arrives, balancing appetizers like offerings. Plates are set, napkins adjusted. Small thank-yous spill across the table like rehearsed cues. I smile when I’m supposed to. Nod when I’m expected to.
