Page 114 of Once Upon a Lie

7:00 p.m.

Somewhere along the way, I let myself start dreaming about fairy tales again.

Until the stupid fucking prince broke my heart.

So, tonight, I’m giving fairy tales my middle finger. This evening, every ounce of my being will be focused on not letting anyone see how badly I’ve broken.

I slam the mascara wand down on my vanity, shoving back on my stool and standing to admire myself in the full-length mirror. If looks could kill, I would be a huntress, ready to avenge my broken heart with maleficence and violence.

My blue-green eyes are lined in black and covered in smoky shadow, and my lips are glossed with crimson. My jeweled graphite gown must weigh a million pounds and ends at the ankle, and I rival the height of a normal human thanks to six-inch, strappy Manolo Blahnik heels. They were a gift from my mother one Christmas—and not even in the literal realm of what I’d usually spend on shoes—but with their bladed heels and satin ribbon straps, they’re the perfect accompaniment to my outfit.

I don’t know what my goals are—other than survival—but this newfound level of vengeful anger is the only thing getting me through these days.

Tonight, I want to be a woman who’s not to be trifled with.

A woman who killed off naivety out of desperation and transformed her heart into an armored vehicle.

A woman who won’t let a man lead her to temptation without a knife at his throat and a gun in her bag.

A woman who’s willing to save herself at the expense of everyone else instead of the other way around.

Satisfied, I step away from the mirror and gather my small purse, heading out the door of my condo and rounding the corner to wait for the elevator. When I step inside, I make a promise to not go back. Whatever version of me walks out of this elevator tonight won’t be the same woman who walked in.

I won’t be the woman who cries on Alfred’s couch over a man who didn’t even have the balls to say goodbye.

Not anymore.

She’s long gone. Shane Maddox killed her.

I walk through the roped-off entrance to Centennial Park, and the staff working this event usher me down the red carpet with courtesy and efficiency.

Somewhere nearby, a radio crackles softly. I can’t tell who it belongs to, only that the sound raises the fine hairs along my arms.

I can’t deny that security feels heavier than I remember from last year’s gala. Men in dark suits with earpieces scan the crowd while uniformed officers stand just beyond the velvet ropes, pretending not to watch anyone too closely.

It’s probably nothing, though. With the ongoing and always-seems-to-be-rising success of Cordone Freight, this gala attracts big attention from some of the richest people in the country. Surely people like that want to be well protected. God forbid they, like, lose a diamond or something.

Every single step of my stilettos cuts through the foolish little dreams I let myself have about a man I should’ve seen through from the start.

His perfect smile, his easy laugh, his emotional availability and quiet support . . . they were all bright-red flags, falsities—fucking lies.

Grinding my teeth and forcing my mouth into a saccharine smile, I step through the arch of excess and into a world of lights, fancy formal attire, sleek linens, overflowing centerpieces, spilling buffet tables of hand-cut fruit and fancy cheeses, and scan the crowd for a familiar face. My brother. My mother. Even my father’s right-hand man, Leonidas, would be a comfort in this sea of unknown.

Wealth drips from people in the form of diamonds and gowns and confidence, but I don’t know any of them.

The loneliness echoes so harshly of a childhood I hated, of the careful relationships and greed-driven alliances and keeping up with the Joneses.

It may not be a criminal world like New York, but it has the same moving parts and ugly underbelly. People grasp desperately at rungs of a ladder, hoping to be on top, signing away donations to the charity that’ll benefit from this ball in the hopes of notoriety and recognition rather than doing any real good, and . . . I don’t fit in at all.

For the first time since arming my broken heart with anger and seeding my actions with spite, I regret coming tonight. I should’ve stayed home. I should’ve eaten grilled cheese and tomato soup and watched Diane Keaton movies with Alfred in my pajamas. I should’ve run away—somewhere far and different and secluded.

I should’ve—

My breath snags.

Across the ballroom, wedged between a woman in a red dress with a big laugh and a man in a tux with tails, stands an asshole with a face I know better than I want to.

My traitor prince, the teller of lies, my number-one enemy in all of Nashville and beyond—Shane Maddox.