Page 163 of Going Viral for Christmas
It’s like pulling a thread that could unravel everything.
This won’t stay buried forever.
Let me handle it. You’ve done enough.
Focus on keeping the chemistry alive and your mouth shut.
Chest tight, I pocket the phone. Matthew’s trying to protect me. Possibly even Ava. But all I can think is, if she finds out I kept this from her, it won’t be a scandal I’m managing, it’ll be the end of us before we ever really began.
My insides are burning with rage as I walk into the ballroom of theSnowflake Gala.
The place pulses with elegance. Ice-blue uplighting washes the walls in a winter glow, cascading snowflakes project shadows on the walls, while crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling like frozen icicles. The tables are shimmering with mirrored runners, silver place cards, and candles flickering beside fluted champagne glasses. A string quartet is playing a dramatic orchestral rendition of Taylor Swift’s“Cruel Summer,”and somehow it works even though it’s winter.
Everyone is dressed in tuxes, sequined gowns, and custom accessories that scream, “I read dark academia and I have opinions.”
Earlier, before my text exchange from hell, I was stopped twice by execs in bowties who “love the sword content” and want to “talk TV rights,” which is code for “let’s change your book completely with a streaming deal.”
Camille and Renata scurry around like caffeinated elves trying to keep the itinerary on track, but their stressed energy is no match for the anxiety brewing behind Ava Bell’s eyes.
The one bright spot is that Ava’s book hit the bestseller list this week. Thanks to this PR circus and a couple of well-timed thirst traps—by yours truly, reading her book—the hype train’s still rolling.
Her publisher—bless their opportunistic hearts—is sponsoring this event, which means the moment she steps off this parquet floor, someone will corner her about her work in progress.
Her editor has sent three“Circling back!”texts to her today. She’s currently hovering near the bar like a hawk in heels, wearing a floor-lengthblack gown that fits like it was cut directly from her ambition. Diamond studs wink at her ears every time she swivels her head, scanning the room for her author with laser precision. Even in sequins and silk, she radiates deadlines—poised, polished, and ready to shred a manuscript with one raised brow.
And to add fuel to Ava’s fire, Fisher is filming every damn moment, prepping a holiday documentary, apparently.
Ava’s talking with Victoria. I can tell she’s about to freak the fuck out. If she does, at least she’ll look amazing while doing it, wearing a fitted red, floor-length, off-the-shoulder, sultry gown.
Her curls are pinned back with delicate silver clips that sparkle every time she turns her head, and her lips match the dress. Bold. Daring. Hot as fuck. I love it.
She doesn’t know she’s a fire hazard, but every pair of eyes is staring at her. My caveman instincts kick in, and I cross the floor without thinking. There’s zero hesitation in my steps. No pause, only sheer instinct and need.
Ava’s face lights up when she sees me. I don’t let her speak. I lean in and kiss her, ravenous.
“I need to be inside you right now.” The words tumble out before I can cage them. A smirk follows—masking the truth behind why I said them and the weight of what they actually mean.
Her eyes go wide, her lips parting, caught between outrage and desire. I don’t let myself linger on it because it isn’t about sex. Not really. Yeah, my body’s wound tight, my blood’s been pounding since the second I closed those text messages. But what I want—what I can’t say—is more dangerous than that, which is,I love you, and I don’t want anything to fuck this up.
I don’t just want to be inside her body. I want to be everywhere. Her laugh. Her walls. Her heart.
Keeping the smirk plastered on, I hide behind it, like I have for so long as The Blade. Because if I let her see the raw need underneath, she might bolt. Even though she told me she would try. It’s too early for those three words, and I can’t risk her running.
After that, we schmooze. We pose. We mingle with industry typesand flirt with several bookstore owners. Ava plays her part, but I recognize the tightness in her shoulders, the same as my own.
Her fingers twitch at her sides, and there’s a false brightness in her laugh. She’s about five seconds away from melting down in formalwear.
Fisher—saint that he is—keeps her hands full with cocktails, one or two clearly laced with enough Alani to jumpstart a generator. Her smile is glossy. Her voice is fine-tuned. But I know Ava now. I know the signs. And beneath the lipstick and jokes, she’s hanging on by a thread.
“If you don’t slow those down, your heart’s going to explode—or I’m going to have to carry you out of here.”
She sighs. “I’m just... so tense.”
Understatement of the year.
Ava’s breaths quicken, her chest rising and falling in rapid gasps. She’s two fake smiles away from either vomiting or sobbing.
Turning to face her, my hands brace either side of her waist. “You need to breathe, Bells.”
