Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Even from here, I can see the flashes of paparazzi cameras strobing against the night like tiny, relentless explosions.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
The driver glances in the mirror, brows lifted in silent question.
“This is fine. You can drop me here,” I say, already reaching for the door handle.
Moira only sent me the ticket half an hour ago, like an afterthought—or a challenge. But I’d already Googled the event, the venue, the date. Had to know what I was walking into.
I slide out of the car, the city’s evening air cool against my face, tinged with exhaust fumes, expensive perfume, and the faint buzz of anticipation that always hovers near events like this—where wealth, influence, power and beauty feel tangible in the glitter of each jewel and stitched into every designer seam.
I know it’s an illusion. But it’s such a compelling one that I’ve yet to meet a person who couldn’t be seduced, even if just a little, by its charms.
I glance into the car’s side mirror, adjusting the priest’s collar around my neck.
It’s the only disguise I could muster.
My hair’s longer than it used to be—a little shaggy, the edges flirting with unruly. I haven’t bothered with the razor today either, and stubble shadows my jaw. It’s all a far cry from the slick, carefully curated image I used to maintain. Back when I thought being polished made me untouchable. Back when I believed I could control perception like I controlled everything else.
Tonight, I’m hoping the collar does most of the heavy lifting. It usually does.
People’s eyes slide right over it—or, more accurately, they glance at it but not past it. It makes them squirm, either out of reverence or discomfort, unsure whether to engage or retreat. Especially around here, where religion’s either woven into your bones or treated like an awkward relic from someone else’s attic.
It’s the perfect camouflage.
Nobody looks too closely at a man in a collar. They see what they want to see.
Which is exactly what I need tonight.
I start walking toward the entrance, the ticket tucked into my pocket like a dare, like Moira’s voice is still echoing in my head: Meet me tonight or we’re over.
So, of course, I’m here.
Because losing her isn’t an option.
But as I approach the building, it’s clear the red carpet’s a battlefield. Paparazzi are clustered like vultures, their flashing lenses hungry for scandal. I’d be an idiot to walk straight into that.
So, I circle the block, cutting through the shadows where the noise thins out. I follow the quiet hum of generators and the faint clatter of service carts.
Every event like this has a pulse beneath the glamor. A heartbeat of staff, security, and overworked coordinators trying to hold it all together with duct tape and desperation.
I find a side entrance tucked between dumpsters where a catering van is parked, half-hidden under a flickering security light. A woman with a headset and a clipboard stands there, snapping orders. Her stress is palpable as her eyes dart between the staff and her checklist.
Perfect.
I straighten my collar, smooth the front of my jacket, and walk toward her like I belong. Because that’s the trick. It’s not about sneaking. It’s about being invisible by standing in plain sight.
“Excuse me,” I say, my voice low but threaded with quiet authority. She glances up, frazzled but polite enough not to ignore me completely. “I was told an attendee requested spiritual counsel. They asked me to come discreetly.”
Her eyes flick to the collar, then back to her clipboard, processing just enough to believe me without actually thinking. That’s the beauty of the uniform—it fills in the blanks for people. They see what they expect to see.
She doesn’t question me or ask for a name. She just jerks her thumb toward the door. “Down the hall, ballroom’s to the left.”
“Thank you.”
I slip inside before she can change her mind.
The hallway is dim and lined with crates and folded linens. Staff hustle by with trays of champagne flutes. No one looks at me twice.
I move through the corridors like smoke—silent and unnoticed.
I’m not here to be seen.
I’m here for Moira. To prove whatever point she needed to be proved by my presence. To meet her brother. To take her home where I can punish her properly for dragging us into this unnecessary chaos. I will be exacting. I will bring back order.
I move through the corridors, pulse steady, every step measured with precision. A man with a purpose. A man in control.
Until I push through the final door—
And the world stops.
There she is.
Moira.
Time folds in on itself and slips sideways, as if the universe had been holding its breath for this very moment.
The noise of the gala—the dull roar of conversation, the clink of glass, the undercurrent of Christmas music—fades to a distant hum.
She stands under the glow of chandeliers that drip with crystals, each shard refracting light like constellations scattered just for her.