“Ryan,” I said feebly, but he shook his head.

“It’s okay,” he repeated even though he sounded a million miles from “okay.” “Just go.”

I felt like there was more I should say. We might have only been together for two years, but Ryan had been a huge part of my life.

But in the end, I just nodded again. It was better like this. So with one last little wave, I got out of the car and walked into the house.

Saylor was hanging her coat in the front closet when I walked in. “Where are your gloves?”

I stared at her. “Seriously?”

She rolled her eyes, exasperated. “You sound like David. And while I know there are”— she glanced around us—“more pressing matters at hand right now, it’s still important that you look the part. Now I’ll ask you again, where are your gloves?”

Adrenaline had made me jittery, and my hand shook slightly as I gestured back out the door. “I left them in Ryan’s car.”

Saylor lifted an eyebrow. “And is Mr. Bradshaw coming inside?”

“I-I don’t think so. We broke up.”

Closing her eyes, Saylor rolled her lips inward. “Was tonight the best time for that?”

Anger flared up in me. “I don’t know. I’m not sure there is a best time for your boyfriend to dump you.”

“You and Ryan broke up?”

Bee had just walked in the front door, Brandon a few steps behind her.

“Kind of?” I said before shaking my head. “No, not kind of. We broke up, yes.”

I don’t know what kind of expression people make after they’ve watched a puppy get stomped, but it had nothing on Bee’s face in that moment. “Right before Cotillion?” she asked, shocked. “You broke up with your boyfriend half an hour before the most important night of your life?”

Taking a deep breath, I picked up the hem of my dress, moving closer to Bee. “First off, this is not the most important night of our lives. There are going to be lots of important nights. And secondly, he actually broke up with me, and it’s . . . it’s okay.”

“It’s so not okay,” Bee said, her dark eyes watery. “You can’t possibly be okay. Harper—”

Behind me, I could hear the kitchen door opening. A couple of men in black pants and white shirts came through, carrying a small table between them.

I met Saylor’s gaze. The cater waiters. They didn’t seem particularly assassin-like, and they weren’t even looking in this direction. But then, Dr. DuPont hadn’t seemed scary either until he’d had a scimitar at my neck.