Page 37 of Atlas
“Nothing,” she replies far too quickly.
“Tessa.” She won’t meet my eyes now. “Has Atlas said something?” She shakes her head, but it’s too fast, too forced. “Tessa,” I repeat, firmer this time. “What do you know?”
She groans and leans back. “Okay, but don’t kill the messenger. He went on a date the other night.”
The words hit harder than I expect. I inhale sharply and try not to let it show. “Oh.”
“I don’t know if I should be telling you,” she adds, guilt creeping into her voice. “He never said not to, but . . .”
“It’s fine,” I cut in, waving a hand like it’s no big deal. “I’ve been telling him to go on dates for months.” She gives me a look—it’s soft, pitying even, like she sees right through me. “As long as he’s happy,” I add.
“He seems happy,” she murmurs, and my heart gives a sharp, traitorous twist.
The silence stretches between us before she changes the subject. “And you’re seeing Anthony now. How’s that going?”
I force a smile. “Good.”
A lie.
“He’s so nice,” I continue, like I’m reading off a list of things I should want. “In fact, he’s asked me to go to a ball this weekend.”
Tessa perks up. “A ball? As in big dresses and cute hair?”
I nod. “Yeah, it’s a business thing, but he needed a plus-one.”
“Great.” Then, without missing a beat, “And has he booked that weekend away he promised?”
I lift a shoulder. “I’m not sure.”
She frowns. “The girls will be disappointed you’re not coming to the club on Saturday. They were complaining last night about how they hardly see you anymore.”
My stomach sinks. I used to go all the time. Before everything got messy with Atlas. Before I stopped feeling like I belonged.
“What’s happening on Saturday?” I ask, though I already know it’s something I’ll probably regret missing.
“Axel’s throwing a barbeque. Reckons we all need cheering up.”
The ballroom is exactly the kind of place you’d expect Anthony to belong to with chandeliers that drip crystal, a string quartet in the corner, and waiters who somehow manage to glide rather than walk. Everyone here seems polished, filtered, filtered again.
Including me.
Or at least, I tried. It wasn’t an easy task after years of snubbing this kind of event.
I smooth down the front of my dress and take a breath as Anthony returns with two glasses of champagne.
He hands me one with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You look beautiful tonight,” he says, then adds, “though you really should’ve worn your hair up. It elongates your neck.”
I nod, swallowing the sting. “Next time.”
He clinks his glass to mine. “To us.”
I echo the words, but they taste flat in my mouth. We sip. He immediately starts scanning the room, already more interested in who’s watching us than in me.
“Remember, that’s Harrow from the board,” he murmurs as we start to walk through the crowd. “And that’s his wife. She runs a charity or something. Smile.”
I smile.
We stop in front of a couple, and Anthony slides straight into charming mode, introducing me with the kind of rehearsed warmth that makes me feel like I’m part of a presentation. I laugh at the right moments, nod when expected, and try not to fidget under the weight of polite, slightly condescending small talk.
