“I said get it out of your system…I just didn’t think you’d call it off. I’m a little shocked. I shouldn’t want to be married to someone who doesn’t want me, right? I even tried so hard to convince my father,” she said. “I told my brother and my father I didn’t want to marry you anymore, but…you know. It doesn’t matter. You’re canceling it. I’m sorry. I didn’t have the guts.” Her shining eyes met mine. “I’m sorry I realized it too late. It was always you for me, too, Grayson.” She smiled weakly. “I hope you’re happy with her.”

“Lottie, shit.” I messed up my hair. “You’re perfect. You’ll find someone so much better than me.”

She looked into her champagne. “When will you tell them?”

My mother’s gaze had shifted from me to Snitch. She set down her glass of champagne, and I could see the wheels turning.

“No, I canceled it,” I said. “It’s done.”

Her brow collapsed, and her head shot up. “But tonight—”

“Can we finish this later?”

“Of course, Grayson.”

STORY

Grayson has been gone for ten minutes, and the last time I saw him he was with Lottie.

I keep telling myself he chose me.

He chose me.

I have nothing to worry about.

But that doesn’t calm my nerves.

At least my dress is the best camouflage. People would never expect Story Hale to be here, dressed the way I am. So far I’ve blended in beautifully next to a row of books.

I eavesdropped on the conversations like back when I was a servant, and, still, the things the rich and famous say are quite…dull.

There is no truth to their words.

Honesty. Bloody, raw, jagged truth.

I shivered at the memory.

“Story?” West du Lac’s voice made me freeze. I stared straight ahead, hoping he would think he was mistaken.

“Story, I know that’s you.”

Shit.

West grabbed my arm, turning me to face him. “What are you doing here?”

“What are…” I stopped. Du Lac was on the freaking building.

“I’m Grayson’s date.”

“His date?” West laughed, but more to himself than to me. It was bitter, caustic, cutting. My high from before eviscerated by his cutting laugh. “So it’s because of you.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What do you mean ‘because of me’?’”

But he didn’t respond to my question.

“What is it, Story?” he asked. “Why are you with him? I didn’t pay high enough?”

I imagined pouring champagne on his head or throwing cake in his face. Instead, as years’ worth of feelings I’d repressed came bubbling to the surface, I spoke the truth.

The bloody, raw, jagged truth.

“If you recall, West”—I bit his name off—“you didn’t call me back.”