Page 70 of Release Me
If I’m going to drown my sorrows anywhere, I might as well do it somewhere spectacular, in the company of my friends.
And I can’t even try to deny the need to see Rian claws at my heart like a caged beast. I haven’t seen him since Wicklow, unless you count in my dreams, of course. I’ve thrown myself into work, into promoting spring publications. I’ve attended all of Anthony’s work functions and charity dinners like a good little corporate wife. I’ve had dinner with his parents and endured painful interrogations about when we’re going to make them grandparents, and even more painful reminders that I’m not getting any younger.
But no matter what I do, I can’t get Rian Beckett out of my head.
It’s not just his big dark eyes I miss. I miss his easy friendship. I miss his ability to make me smile even when I’m feeling like utter shit.
And tonight, I feel like shit.
I pick up my phone from the kitchen counter and call Ivy.
‘Please tell me you changed your mind and you’re coming out?’ The sound of cutlery clanging and the low buzz of chatter over the phone tells me my friend is already out.
Of course she is. Beckett men know exactly how to treat their women. I’d bet my life Ivy, Avery, Scarlett and Layla are all being wined and dined as we speak.
‘Damn right I did. What time shall I meet you?’ I stalk towards the bedroom in search of something to wear.
If Anthony wants to spend Valentine’s Day proving what a cliché he is, I can at least spend mine proving I’m still alive.
‘I’ll send a driver for you. Be ready in half an hour. Caelon and I are just finishing dessert.’
‘Are you sure I’m not gatecrashing your night?’ Doubt flicks through me.
‘Don’t be silly! Anyone who’s anyone will be there tonight. You have to come!’ Her excitement is palpable.
‘Okay, see you soon.’ I hang up, throw my phone onto my bed, and stride into my walk-in wardrobe, surveying the neat line of dresses I rarely get to wear.
If I’m doing this, I’m doing it properly. My fingers trail over silks and satins until they land on a slinky red number I bought on a whim in London—a bias-cut slip with a low cowl neckline, thin straps and a hem that skims mid-calf. The colour is crimson, the fabric feels like liquid against my skin. I slip it on, add gold strappy Choos, a matching clutch, and several spritzes of the Tom Ford Anthony brought back from Dubai—may as well get some use out of it.
When the Beckett driver arrives, I’m waiting in the marble lobby, coat folded over one arm. I was half expecting Thomson, but this guy introduces himself as Walsh as he opens the door of the sleek black Bentley.
‘Thanks,’ I say, sliding onto the cool leather seat. My heart is already thumping erratically at the mere prospect of seeing Rian. I’m not going to do anything. Nothing is going to happen. I made a promise, and I fully intend on sticking to it. But just the idea of seeing his easy smile sets my soul on fire.
The closer we get to Elixir, the more the city hums with activity. Valentine’s night in Dublin means couples spilling out of restaurants, roses clutched in gloved hands. Laughter leaks into the frosty air. The car slows outside a discreet doorway in the middle of Dawson Street. Four sharp-suited doormen flank a velvet-roped entrance. The queue to get in runs to the end of the street and who knows how far around the corner. From inside, a low, pulsing rhythm spills out,weaving through the winter air like an invitation. The beat echoes off the pavement, promisingly.
Walsh escorts me straight to the front doors, skipping the queue entirely. The doormen clearly know him, because they sidestep and motion for us to go inside.
‘I’ll leave you here.’ Walsh raises his voice to be heard over the music. ‘The VIP section is at the back. Ivy, Caelon, Killian and Avery are already there.’
‘Thank you.’ I step further inside, marvelling at the décor.
Elixir is everything Ivy promised and then some. A vast chandelier hangs over the reception area, droplets of crystal cascading like frozen rain. The main room stretches beyond, a sensual mix of deep walnut, black marble and gleaming brass. An onyx bar runs the length of one wall, its surface inlaid with veins of gold that glitter under low amber lights. Behind it, shelves rise to the ceiling, expensive bottles of spirits arranged like jewels.
Velvet booths in shades of wine and midnight hug the perimeter, each one haloed by rope lighting offering a warm glow. The air hums with a lazy sax riff over a slow house beat, scented faintly with sandalwood and champagne. Staff glide through the crowd with trays of cocktails balanced on palms, the gold glasses gleaming beneath the lighting.
Everywhere I look, people are dressed to kill. Women wear slinky dresses that scream Valentino or Versace. Men wear razor-sharp suits with pocket squares as precise as origami. It’s less a crowd and more a catwalk, every turn of the head glittering with proof that Dublin’s elite came to slay tonight.
For a moment, I hover just inside the door, taking it all in. My nerves fizz like the bubbles in the champagne flutes. Electricity skims my skin.
And I know somewhere across the room is the real reason I came.
His dark glossy hair and huge physique are easy to spot through the crowd. Like he senses my arrival; his head snaps up, and his eyes collide with mine. That catastrophic chemistry pulses between us again, tethering us to each other like an invisible string.
I smile, the first real smile that’s touched my lips in weeks. But he doesn’t return it. In fact, his thick eyebrows furrow together in a frown, and something like real rage burns in his irises.
Shit.
Maybe he doesn’t want me here?
