Page 179 of Burning Daylight
Paxton’s gaze narrows but he doesn’t reply. He just starts tapping his napkin again with that same jittery rhythm, like his bones are trying to crawl out of his skin.
Tiffany leans into him, running her hand down his arm, and he rips his eyes away and turns to his wife.
Dinner is served on silver platters by servers in crisp black vests, and everyone falls into their polite, empty chatter. The kind we’ve rehearsed since we were kids. Compliments. Fundraising buzzwords. Laughter at jokes no one actually thinks are funny.
I chew my steak slowly, thinking of how quiet Roman had looked standing in the back of the ballroom. How haunted. How distant.
Anxiety wrings my stomach tight.Has something changed? Is he just playing the part?
My mother’s voice cuts through the fog. “Juliette, have you spoken to Preston tonight?”
My fork stills against the edge of the plate. “Unfortunately.”
“Maybe you can take a walk with him in the promenade later after the meal,” she replies, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a napkin.
I stare at her.
And something inside of me breaks. I’m tired of being told where to stand, what to wear, who to smile at. Tired of being a passive part in whatever world she’s carved out for me.
“I’m not going on a walk with Preston,” I say, setting down my fork.
She quirks a brow, fire flashing in her gaze. “And why not?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
Alex chokes on his drink.
Paxton stops mid-chew.
“Don’t be childish, Juliette.” My mother laughs like this is all a joke. “You’ve known each other forever. It would do you good to be seen together again. People talk.”
“I don’t care if people talk,” I say through gritted teeth. “I’m not interested in being part of some curated fairy tale for them to gossip about over dessert.”
Across the table, my father clears his throat again. A warning.
But I’m already past the edge. And honestly,fuckhim, too. He’s not a good man, and he’s never cared enough about me to actually be an active participant in my life.
“I’m not marrying Preston,” I continue, my voice growing sharper. “I’m not going to help you with your little fundraising events. And I’m not going to keep pretending I want a life I never asked for.”
The silence is instant. All that polite chatter at our table dies at once.
My mother looks at me like I’ve slapped her.
“So what, then,doyou plan to do?” she hisses out.
I swallow around the panic climbing in my throat and I fist my hands, pretending they don’t tremble.
“I’m going to write.”
My mother blinks. “Write what?”
I shrug, the urge to curl in on myself under her gaze strong. But then I look over to Paxton, and he gives me a small smile and a nod. My spine straightens.
“Books. Stories. Things that make people feel something real.”
She laughs, like she thinks I’m joking.
“I’ve spent my whole life being loyal to this family,” I continue, my voice rising. “I’ve done everything you asked of me. Smiled when I wanted to scream. Performed like it was second nature. But I’m done twisting myself into whatever shape you need to be proud of me.”
