8. Weston

The tie is too tight.

As I’m standing surveying the crowd, my lungs are burning with the effort it takes to breathe. I hate this fucking place. These people aren’t here for the cause; they’re here for the recognition, to be seen, to be photographed for their “good deeds.”

It makes me sick.

But when I see her, my heart stops.

Her auburn hair is hanging in curled rivulets down her back over a cream-colored, floor-length gown that hugs every luscious curve. Sweet fuck, Renee DuBois is a beautiful woman. I should look away, stop staring, but there isn’t enough money in the world to tempt me away.

Then she turns to look at me—and that does the trick.

Her eyes are narrow, dead, as if all the life has been sucked out of her. I feel like I got stabbed and I have to close my eyes against the pain.

When Renee was at Sutton’s, she was a life force. Effervescent.

Now, she’s a shell. A beautiful shell, but a shell just the same.

The hush that fell over the crowd when I entered fades away and the babble resumes. I start carving my way through the crowd toward Renee. People stop me, looking for autographs, to rub elbows, whatever, but I ignore them all.

My blood boils as that douchebag tugs her closer to his side. And she smiles.

Straight up smiles at him. I don’t know if I’m completely buying the happy couple act, but then she turns into his arms and gazes up at him, her hands on his shoulders now. They are the picture of perfection and my chest gets tight.

Something in my gut clenches and I blow out a long, slow breath because the last thing I need is the bad press from kicking his fucking ass in front of the crowd of L.A.’s elite.

I try telling myself I have no right to feel this way. She isn’t mine anymore. If I’m being brutal with the honesty, she never was. She was just my friend—and maybe not even that—with benefits. Not her fault I started having some… questions about how I felt.

I pause a few dozen yards away. I can see her in profile, still murmuring to the Carrington fuck.

I’m going to wait until the yup gives her a minute to breathe and then I’m going to go in. I don’t have a specific plan as to what I want to say, because I don’t know how to feel about her, and I can only assume that she hates my guts. So I have to tread lightly.

Needless to say, that isn’t one of my finer traits.

It gets less likely with every passing second. She’s making a public spectacle of herself, hanging on the douche like he’s a life preserver.

When he finally walks away from her, I make my way across the room. I can feel the curious gazes, but I don’t care.

“Renee.” Her name is a soft sigh I don’t intend for it to be, but she doesn’t even bother to turn around. I clear my throat. “Renee, we should talk.” This time my voice is deeper, darker. Still she doesn’t turn and I mutter an almost silent, “Goddammit.”

She turns, shoots me a scowl, then stalks away without a word.

“Renee!” I chase her. She’s a lot faster than her heels should allow for. When I finally catch her just as she’s about to head into the ladies’ room, she jerks away from me hard.

“Leave me alone, Weston.”

“I can’t.”

She shakes her head and her lips pull into a tight line, but her voice comes in a flat monotone as if the part of her that makes her sound alive has been removed from her body. “I’m engaged, Weston, so I need you to leave me alone.” She hasn’t met my gaze. “The very last thing I need anyone to see is you making a scene.”

“No, the very last thing you need is to marry that fucking prick.”

“That’s none of your business.” Her nostrils flare as she finally looks at me. “After everything that happened, it reminded me that I’m better off sticking to what I know. And I know Deacon.”

“Renee, I?—”

“No. Stop. I’m asking you very, very nicely—nicer than you deserve—to just leave me alone.”

She turns again and this time, when I grab her, I hang on. “I can’t do that, Renee.”

Her jaw is quivering with tension. She’s back to her “don’t look at him” game, too. “I have to get back out there.”

“To playing the perfectly poised wife?” I laugh cruelly. “Does it hurt to have to act so much?”

“Well, it beats playing the whore for someone who thinks I would steal from him. Between you and this, I’ll take this.”

With that, she twists out of my grasp and storms away.

I stand there for a long time after she’s gone. I’ve never felt so defeated in my life.

When I finally come back to my senses, I leave by way of the back door. The night air is balmy and still and the chatter of the party oozes out of the building behind me.

I want to go back in and get the last word. No, actually, I want to drag Renee out of here and tell her I’m sorry, that I changed my mind, that I believe her instead of my own demons.

But I don’t do any of that. Like I told her, I can’t.

So I do the only thing I can do: I leave, before I explode and hurt that puny little douchebag so that the press has a story that will put an end to the career I’m barely hanging onto.