Meanwhile, Macalister’s voice was louder, as if he’d gotten much closer to Damon, perhaps right in his face. “You’re a bastard.”
“Jesus, Macalister, like you should talk. And I don’t have time for this.”
It was so quiet in the ballroom, not a soul was breathing.
I felt . . . strangely nothing. The hole in my stomach grew and consumed me. There was disappointment but not surprise.
But on top of it was also closure. It was out now. Done. Time marched brutally along.
Finally, a new voice punched through the speakers, the person sounding out of breath. “Your mic’s on! Turn it off. Oh, my God, Damon. It’s—”
“What?”
“—been on this whole time.”
Loud, violent thumps played as a hand scrambled over the microphone, muffling any more words, and then it went abruptly silent.
The room sat in tense agony, unsure of what to do, and it only grew when Kristin Lynch rose awkwardly from her chair near the front of the stage. There was no way for her to sneak out unseen, so she tried to hold her head high as she calmly put her purse on her shoulder and walked to the exit. She moved as if each step were painful, and while I wasn’t sure she deserved quite so much humiliation, I didn’t feel that sorry for her. She wasn’t much better than her husband.
She’d had her own infidelities, and although there were tens of millions of dollars in her bank account, she was so cheap, it was criminal. She was the type of person to plant a dead bug in her five-star hotel room to try to get it comped. Kristin was so entitled, she refused to pay full price on anything.
Vance had frozen halfway off the stage, but it was rapidly becoming clear Damon wouldn’t be coming out, and so the responsibility to dismiss the audience was going to need to be handled.
Before he could do it, a hero emerged from behind the curtain, and my blood roared loudly in my ears. His master plan executed, he looked effortlessly composed and powerful in victory.
After a quick exchange with his son, Macalister strolled up to the podium like a king readying to speak to his kingdom. He raised the microphone to his level and surveyed the crowd, and his demeanor reassured the room they were in capable hands. He’d tell them what to do now.
“Ladies and gentlemen, in light of what has happened, Damon has decided he will not be speaking this evening. He’ll be using this time to reflect on his actions and discuss them privately with his family. He thanks you for your understanding.”
It seemed like a dismissal, and I expected him to walk off proudly, come find me, and gloat about his win. I could begrudgingly admit his plan was good. He’d forced the confession from Damon as if by accident and had come off looking like a friend when it was over. But instead of exiting the stage, Macalister braced his hands on the sides of the podium and leaned closer to the microphone.
“I imagine many of you are upset and disappointed, but there’s someone in the audience who has lived silently with that for quite a while, and if you will indulge me, I’d like to address her now.”
His gaze moved swiftly and directly to me, and I clenched my hands instinctively. What was he doing?
“Sophia Alby,” he announced, “I wore this suit for you. I came to this event tonight for you.” His chest moved quickly, and his eyes were shockingly intense as he stared at me. “I get up every morning and I keep breathing . . . for you.”
Holy.
Fuck.
I whispered it to him under my breath so quietly it might not have made a sound. “What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t give you what you needed and that I let you down. Despite my efforts, I am not a perfect man. I’m far from it. But you have pushed me to want to be a better man. To be a good man.”
He drew in a deep, preparing breath, and as he straightened, he looked at me with so much power, it obliterated me. I went boneless.
“I don’t care who knows or what they may think, or that I’m making a complete fool out of myself, right here, right now in front of all these people. It doesn’t matter. It hurts everywhere with you gone,” his voice was solid and sure, “because I am very much in love with you.”
Maybe people gasped, or Ian balked at my side, but I couldn’t tell. I was trapped under Macalister’s gaze, unable to experience anything else. If I moved, I’d die, but perhaps that would be all right. He’d brought me back to life once before.
He could probably do it again.
Tingles raced across my limbs with the electricity of our connection. It was hard to heave air in and out of my lungs, and it had to hurt my fractured rib, but I couldn’t feel it. We’d spent months restoring his name and reputation, and he was willing to risk it all—just for the chance to win me back.