Page 96 of Milo

Let me in. Please. Prove me wrong. I want to be wrong. Destroy my preconceived notions. Pummel my expectations. Wash away my prejudice, my fears, my worries.

Please.

Let me the fuck in.

Milo winces, snapping his fingers shut as I drop the chain in his hand. His fist vibrates like it hurts to hold, to touch, to remember.

He hesitates for a second, his gaze flitting across my pleading face before revealing, in a raw, coarse tone, "It belonged to someone who is no longer in my life."

"Oh," I hum, blinking at the dreary man in front of me as my stomach churns. He had a someone. A woman. A woman who has clearly left her mark. A dark, lingering stain on his guarded heart. "Okay."

But it's not okay. Not one bit.

Milo flicks his fingers in the air as he calls out, "Gio." His soldier appears by his side in an instant. Milo hands him the necklace. "Get rid of it. I don't want to see this ever again."

A giant stain.

Gio nods, fisting the chain. "Right away."

When my guard steps away, I tilt my head. "Are you alright?" I rest my hand on his rising chest, his heart beating into my open palm, fast, unsteady, frantic. "I'm sorry?—"

Marchello clears his throat, drawing our attention. "We should head downstairs now," he states, stepping over broken glass. "People are expecting us."

"Yes.” Milo casts me a weary glance and slowly reaches for my hand as we head out of the suite. "We should go."

He adjusts his grip, tightening his fingers around mine like he's afraid I'll fly away, disappear, turn into a ghost.

"I'm not going anywhere," I whisper under my breath, keeping my gaze on the tiled floor as we step into the elevator. "I promise."

Milo doesn't respond as he watches the numbers descend on the digital monitor. Maybe he didn't hear me. Maybe he doesn't care. Maybe the owner of the necklace has tarnished something I didn't know I wanted. Maybe this is it. This is all he can give me. A fragment. A sliver. A tainted shard of his broken heart.

Maybe it's enough.

It has to be.

When the elevator doors ping open, we make our way into the Royal Ballroom situated on the fifth floor. Muted laughter, soulful jazz, and the scent of roses overpower my dull senses as we enter the extravagant ballroom. Red florals decorate every table, thematic silk drapes converge at the center of the ceiling, dim atmospheric burgundy beams of light reflect off the faces of every guest.

"What now?" I ask Milo as he leads us through the hordes of people.

"Now we mingle," Milo murmurs lifelessly, expelling a labored sigh as he lets go of my hand. "We make our presence known."

When I was a little girl, I always dreamed of going to a ball. I dreamed of wearing a beautiful gown. I dreamed of dancing with a prince. But dreams are simply that, dreams. This isn't that sort of ball. Milo isn't that kind of prince. And this isn't a fairytale.

This is business.

Hours pass by as Milo drags me from table to table, introducing me to politicians, legislators, diplomats, the elite. I'm his friend. Just a friend. A friend that he refuses to touch or look at for more than two seconds. It's like I'm his accessory for the night. Like a luxury watch. A couture cufflink. Merely there for show, for status, for decoration.

"If you'll excuse us," Milo says, smiling politely at the uppity couple we've been chatting with for the last ten minutes. "Enjoy the rest of your evening." For the first time in three hours, Milo dares to put his hand on the small of my back as he leads us out onto the terrace. "Is everything alright, Kiara?"

"Everything is great," I mutter, a gust of wind nipping my skin as we step out on the stone balcony. "Just great."

"You are cold." Milo frowns, pulling out a sleek black cigarette case from his pocket. "Here." He pops a Marlboro between his lips as he shrugs off his tuxedo jacket and drapes it over my shoulders. We side-step the entrance, settling in the corner of the patio near the ashtray. "Is that better?"

"Mhmm…” I lean against the glass windows as he lights his cigarette, the combination of his sweet cologne and the ashy cloud of chemicals filling my lungs. It shouldn't be comforting, but it is. "All better."

"I take it you are not having a good time," Milo astutely observes, blowing the smoke away from me.

I cross my arms. “Seeing as this is the longest conversation we've had all night, no, I am not having a good time." I tilt my head. "Are you?"

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