Page 107 of When Hearts Collide

She leans in and looks around furtively before whispering, “I guess you can say it’s my tiny act of rebellion. It drives my parents crazy how I don’t fall in line like most of the socialites in our circles.”

“Hell yeah, I dig the rebellion,” Tay comments.

Belle grins, a spark shining in her warm eyes. “But now that Grace is with Steven, and you’re stepping into society…maybe I’ll tag along next time, and we can have a girls’ night at that Japanese medspa I’ve heard much about.”

A noise travels from her laptop. She suddenly looks to her side and swivels her head back at us. “Sorry, girls. Have to run. We have tickets to the Moulin Rouge.”

Grace sighs. “I’m so jealous of you, Belle. I love Paris.” Her violet eyes take on a wistful gleam.

Taylor snorts. “Of course you do. Steven proposed to you there and gave you the trip of a lifetime. Look at that ice skating rink on your finger.” She smirks at the love-drunk expression on Grace’s face.

Steven proposed to Grace this past Thanksgiving in one of those straight-out-of-fairytale’s plot lines by whisking her off to the city of love, the one place she wanted to visit for the longest time but never had the funds to do so when she and Taylor barely kept afloat growing up.

My heart pinches at the dreamy smile on Grace’s face, and an unexpected rush of sadness curls itself around my rib cage. I’m truly happy for my friend, someone with a heart of gold and kindness.

But I can’t help but want the same with Ryland. Wishing I could stroll hand in hand with him in public, my head nestled against his strong shoulder, him smiling warmly at me as he wipes off the whipped cream stuck on my upper lip after I drink a big sip of hot chocolate; him bending me backward in front of the Rockefeller Center and giving me a passionate kiss to rival those we see in movies.

The little, everyday vignettes of a life full of love and brightness. That’s what I want with him, a desperate tugging, an aching yearning.

I don’t need the luxuries of The Orchid or the wealth of being with an Anderson.

I just want him.

The thought adds to the heaviness in my chest as another wave of agony tears through my abdomen. I close my eyes, breathing through the layers of pain threatening to unmoor me.

Chapter 42

“Say hello to your brother for me. It’s such a shame he couldn’t make it tonight.”

I smile at the portly gentleman standing in front of me. “I’ll let him know for sure. And he told me to tell you he’ll call you after the holidays.”

He nods, clearly pleased at the idea of Adrian calling him later, before striding away toward the sea of blue and white, no doubt to say hello to other important people.

I let out a soft sigh as I admire the beautiful scenery before me.

The theme this year is Crystal and Frost Soirée. I’ve heard from Grace that every year, there’s usually a unique theme and the decor will be impressive in a way a multi six-figure decoration budget can produce.

I must admit, I was taken aback when I stepped through the double doors of the ballroom tonight and was immediately transported into an otherworldly atmosphere of glittering winter decor, where I could be dancing alongside the Sugar Plum Fairy in The Nutcracker.

The large space is a vision of white, with gauzy silk draping over the walls, backlit by pale blue lights. The floor is covered in artificial snow, and not the kind that melts, and with every movement of passersby, small flutters will kick up at their feet.

Thousands of crystals in the shape of icicles hang from the towering ceilings. I raise my hands to the air to reach toward the fake snow drifting down from vents up high, giving the illusion we’re amid a beautiful snowfall, but the white flakes disappear before they reach my hands, never falling too far as to ruin the thousand-dollar gowns and tuxes of the patrons.

Elegant Christmas trees, tipped in white and adorned with elegant gold and silver ornaments, decorate the corners of the room, complete with large, wrapped presents carefully arranged over gold-spun tree skirts.

Attendees were asked to dress in black, blues, or whites to match the theme. I walk toward the refreshments area and admire the breathtaking centerpieces of hydrangeas and peonies. Everything is so beautiful and perfectly done.

People mingle and laugh, dressed to the nines, with efficient waiters and waitresses circling the room, carrying trays of hors d’oeuvres and refreshments. A full orchestra sits to the side, strumming elegant melodies. I take a small glass of water from a waiter passing by and listen to the musicians’ performance.

The Christmas Ball at The Orchid is the most sought-after social event of the year for the upper crust of society. Invitations are secretly extended and can’t be purchased.

It’s the place to show you’ve made it in society. All the headlines of newspapers and gossip rags tomorrow will feature recaps of this infamous event, with the media coverage overtaking The Met Gala or any of the Hollywood awards ceremonies.

It’s also the only time the press is allowed through its hallowed doors. All the usual antics of the paparazzi are forbidden here. They can take photos but can’t ask questions or disturb the guests. Any funny business and they’ll be dragged out of the building and blacklisted at all high society events across the country in the future. This usually means a career death sentence for the paparazzo in question.

No one escapes the wrath of the mighty Anderson family.

“Almost done with the obligatory schmoozing?” A deep voice says from behind me before I feel a hand gently brushing against my back.

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