Page 70 of The Misfit

“Hey.” I turn her to face me, creating a bubble of space between us and the arriving guests. “We can leave. Right now. Fuck all of them.”

“No.” She straightens again, and god, she’s beautiful when she’s brave. “I’m okay. Just… stay close?”

“Always.”

We approach the ballroom doors, and I feel her count each step. Feel her gathering her courage. Feel her silk-covered fingers tighten on my arm.

The doors swing open, revealing crystal chandeliers and the city’s elite in all their glory. Music spills out, along with the buzz of gossip and judgment.

But as Salem’s hand finds mine, as we step into my world together, as everyone turns to stare at the Sterling heir and his mysterious girlfriend, I can barely breathe.

My anxiety climbs as Salem holds me. It wants to spiral, but I hold back, keeping it together for her more than anything else. She needs me to be present and here with her.

I snag a couple of drinks off a tray and make sure I keep mine filled as I lead her through the crowd. When I have a moment, I pop a couple of anxiety pills from my pocket to keep me steady. She needs me to be her anchor.

It’s all clowns and actors, and I hate that I’m one of them. That this world forces me to be one of them. And now I’m forcing Salem into this mess with me.

What have I done?

SIXTEEN

salem

Something’s wrong with Lee.I should’ve known that he would change, at least a little, in the presence of his family and prepared myself better, but I didn’t think it would be like this.

Since we arrived, parts of the Lee I’ve come to know and love have begun to dissolve beneath every beverage he drinks. The man who’s typically so attentive to my needs is gone and has been replaced with someone who feels like a stranger. His erratic behavior and scattered thoughts have me on edge. I flinch a little inside every time he picks up a new drink.

His mother’s constant presence doesn’t seem to help matters. I wonder if it might help if I got him outside and into some fresh air.

“Sorry,” he mutters, bumping my elbow as we navigate the crowd.

The movement disrupts my careful counting, and I bite back a growl of annoyance upon losing track. I’ll have to start over, but before I can do that, he’s pulling me in a different direction. I try to focus my attention on the pillars around the room instead—a backup method for when things get overwhelming—but Lee’s uneven movements keep drawing my attention.

“Lee?” I touch his arm, silk gloves sliding against his jacket. “Maybe we should take a break?”

“Can’t.” I watch him down another glass of bourbon like it’s water. He gestures to the server to get him another, then continues, “Mother’s watching. Always watching. Gotta keep up appearances, right?” I feel a bitter sting from the impact of each word he speaks.

Further confirmation that this isn’t my Lee—the one who counts tiles with me and remembers exactly how many times to sanitize surfaces. This Lee is sharp edges and frayed nerves, his unwavering grace replaced with barely controlled chaos.

“I think your mother will be okay if we take a five-minute break.” I manage to get the words out moments before my entire body tenses when a server passing by slides between two people, his tray brushing against my dress.

Every muscle in my body clamps up. I hold my breath, waiting for the panic to subside.It was an accident. Everything is okay.

“No, you don’t understand, Salem. You don’t fucking understand,” Lee snaps at me, his once gentle touch now a steel shackle I can’t escape.

I blink back tears and breathe through my nose. Lee doesn’t appear to notice what he’s done or its effect on me. His attention shifts back to scanning the room with increasing agitation. I should walk away, go outside, get the air myself.

“Another lap?” he questions, his lips turning up into that legendary playboy smile.

“Actually, I was thinking …” I don’t even get to finish what I was saying. My reply is irrelevant when he starts steering us back toward his mother’s social circles. It feels like we’re cattle being moved around for all to see. He plucks a glass of bourbon off a passing tray along the way. I try to match his steps but can’t find a rhythm.

Everything feels wrong—the crowd too close, the music too loud.

“Sterling men always marry well,” another partygoer whispers as we pass by them.

Lee’s fingers dig into my waist in response. Even through the fabric of my dress, I can feel each indent of his fingers, his touch bruising.

“You’re hurting me.” I wince, and this time, he’s paying better attention. Like I’m on fire, he releases me, a look of horror flashing in his eyes.

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