Page 85 of The Devil of Downtown

“To push for marriage after six months. It wasn’t fair, after what you went through...” She swallows, and I almost pity her.

“But I don’t needthat.Let’s reset and go back to how it was before.” Her hand slides up to my cheek, thumb soft. I catch her wrist gently and lower it.

I’m silent for a beat, mulling over my words. The thing is, I don’t hate her, but Leandra is used to getting what she wants. She’s used to men being obsessed with her.

“Is it because of that girl?” she asks, disbelief curled into her brow. That she could ever be second place to anyone difficult for her to comprehend.

Her question lands like a punch I didn’t brace for.That girl.Christ.

“Yes and no,” I say, jaw tight.

She waits, expecting a confession I’m not giving her.

“The ‘no’ is because this... whatever happened between us, it was already over before anyone else was in the picture.” My tone stays even, resolute. “You didn’t lose to someone.”

“The ‘yes’ is that going backwards makes little sense anymore. For either of us.”

It’s the closest I can get to honesty without ripping anything open.

And it’s all she’s getting. I’m not about to tell her she was just filling the silence. Or that since Ivy, nobody else even registers.

Leandra blinks at my answer, and something uneasy flickers across her face—the look of someone realizing they’re losing ground they thought they owned. Her hand slips from mine, and she takes a tiny step back, recalibrating.

“Okay,” she says. “I hear you.”

She doesn’t—not really—but she knows pushing will only make it worse.

“Come sit,” she offers, the smile she musters fragile. A peace offering. Or a last attempt at proximity.

“Fine,” I say, gesturing toward Julian’s table. “Go join the others. I’ll be there shortly. I just need to check on something.”

Before I return to the table, I make a detour toward Sloane. It’s not distrust—she’s the most capable person in the room—but the Bexleys are unpredictable on a good day, and tonight is nowhere near that.

She spots me approaching and straightens, her expression calm, the picture of control in a room full of people pretending to have it.

“Everyone behaving?” I ask under my breath.

“They’re fine,” she replies smoothly. “Maria handled introductions with the parents—investors, political donors, the usual crowd. They seem engaged.”

“And Hugo?” I scan the ballroom.

Her mouth tugs with the faintest hint of dry amusement.

“He found a woman within minutes of arriving here. She seems....tolerant.”

“Or desperate,” I quip.

Sloane gives me a hint of a smile; she’s far too professional to badmouth anyone, even if she agrees. How the hell I didn’t spot Ivy the second she set foot in my office, I’ll never know.

I don’t know when it happened, but it hits me in a small, unexpected way—how much warmer I feel toward Sloane because she matters to Ivy. How badly I want to ask her how Ivy is. What she’s doing. If she’s okay.

I don’t ask.

Sloane doesn’t know about us.

And my life is already a minefield.

I make my way back to the table where Julian, Charlotte, and Leandra have claimed a bottle of champagne and are already halfway through it. Chase and Violet slide in a few minutes later, and for a while, the night softens at the edges. We drink, we mock the décor, and Julian forces us into a terrible toast. Violet makes Charlotte laugh so hard that champagne comes out of her nose. It’s the first moment of actual levity I’ve felt all damn night.