“So I see,” I whisper, grateful the glam squad has quietly gone about their business with their heads down as I feel my past creeping up on me. My stomach knots. I don’t know whether to be angry or heartbroken, but the sight of Jase like this—reckless, lost—hits a deep and raw space in me.

“Even with everything tonight, you let him get like this?” I can’t help the accusation in my voice, but I’m hurt and can’t hide it.

“He’s like this and not worse because of me. There’s stuff . . . there’s a history here.” He pauses and sighs. “I have the doc on the way. He’ll give him an IV to sober him up. It’ll help.”

“Great. Fucking perfect,” I mutter. He does this so much he has a doctor on standby? I’m in way over my head if that’s the case.

“I’ve got it under control. He’ll be good for tonight. I promise,” Vince says as he helps him to the other room.

I stare after the two of them, trying to hide my disillusionment. I also feel mortified, because what does this say to the glam squad around me? But I steel my shoulders and straighten my spine. You’re not his confidante, Hendrix. You’re only in his life for a short time, and you can handle this.

A few minutes pass when another set of footsteps trek down the hall. A man in his late fifties with a button-down dress shirt and medical bag in his hand smiles stiffly before heading to where Vince calls out to him.

I sit in my chair as finishing touches are put on my makeup, my hands clenched into fists, unsure whether I should stay where I am or be in there with Jase.

But the ache in my chest tells me exactly what I already know.

I care. Too much. I won’t be a fool this time. I’m not oblivious to the red flags. I won’t give Jase my heart, but I do care.

And the thought is as terrifying as it is comforting.

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY

Hendrix

With its elegant gowns, crisp tuxedos, and camera flashes, the gala is a glittering spectacle of wealth and power, a world so far removed from my own of flour and sugar that it feels like I’ve stepped into someone else’s life.

In reality, I have, but that’s beside the point.

Every detail is meticulously curated—the extravagant floral arrangements, the cascading chandeliers, the waitstaff moving seamlessly through the crowd with trays of champagne flutes.

And yet, despite the opulence, all I can think about is the man standing beside me.

Jase looks flawless. Not a trace of the broken man I saw just hours ago. No resemblance to the impassioned apologies he offered several times on the way over here.