Page 133 of These White Lies
She shouldn’t be here. None of this is worth it. I should be the one carrying the risk. Not her.
I should’ve just hunted down every suspected Lapidarist and ended it. The world would be a better place without them anyway.
My jaw grinds as I glimpse her back, moving with Ray toward the side hallway. Every instinct tells me to shadow her, but there’s no plausible reason a server should follow a guest to the restrooms. Ray’s planted right outside the door.
Then I hear her.“I’m fine.”I fucking hate it. She’s petrified and doesn’t want to show it.
I control my breathing. She’s just in the bathroom, I remind myself. We’ve got cameras on the hotel entrances, Ray has eyes on the door, and she has two trackers. They can’t get to her.
The comms crackle, and all I hear is her breathing. Too fast, harsh, and ragged, like she’s running. But I know she’s not. She’s sitting in a bathroom stall all alone, trying to hold herself together and failing, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
It guts me. Every panicked sound coming through is a knife to the chest.
She’s seconds away from a full-blown panic attack.
My instinct is to cut the comms, push into that bathroom, and hold her until it stops, and then get her the hell out of this place. Remind her she’s not alone. But I know that if I give her any softness now, she’ll shatter. She’s too close to the edge. And my team is listening. She’d kill me for that.
I ignore the raw need in my chest and do the only thing I can. Give her something to fight.
“You done hiding in the bathroom yet?” My voice comes out smooth, almost amused. I pile on the cocky tone because if I let the pain leak through, she’ll hear it.
A beat of silence. Then she mutters, “I’m not hiding.”
Good. She’s already defensive. That’s better than scared.
“Oh sorry, my mistake. Just casually panic-sitting in a stall for the ambiance. Is that a thing?” I shove the cheer into my voice even though it feels like glass in my throat.
Her breath hitches. “You are so annoying.”
Relief cuts through me. Anger I can work with. Anger keeps her from collapsing.
“I’ve heard that before,” I tell her, letting a grin carry in my voice. “But I’m also exceptionally helpful.” Pain ricochets behind my sternum, but I push through, giving her the only support I can right now.
“Look—this is just a party. You’ve been in rooms with network executives, studio lawyers, billionaires with NDAs the size of phone books. You can handle one greasy crypto guy and a Cruella de Ville wannabe.”
I listen close. Her breathing evens just slightly. She huffs something like a laugh.
That’s my baby. Stay with me.
“That might make me feel better,” she whispers, voice frayed, “if I didn’t know she makes Cruella look like a model volunteer for the humane society. I don’t think I can do this.”
My gut twists, at the broken tone in her voice but I don’t let it show.
If I cave, she caves.
“Just breathe. You’re doing great.” I keep my tone steady, confident.
She snaps back, frustrated. “Easy for you to say. Can you at least acknowledge this is hard for me?”
I grit my teeth. Every cell in me wants to tell her I know, that I’d burn this entire ballroom down to get her out. But that would break her. So, I scoff, and give her what she needs instead. A target.
“You’ve got this. Pretend she’s one of your actors upset with you because there were brown M&Ms in the green room.”
“I hate you.”
And just like that, her breathing evens. Not back to normal, but far enough from the edge that she won’t tip.
“C’mon,” I say, my voice softer, though still with that edge of a grin. “We’ll hug it out in the car. And if it helps—” I drop my tone, let a leer cut through. “I’ll even let you pretend it’s not just an excuse to grab my ass.”
