Page 2 of Once Upon a Lie

Trust too much.

Fall for a guy that I had absolutely no business falling for.

Shane Maddox said things that made me believe in a pure kind of love, and I started to look at him like he was some kind of a fucking prince who had arrived to put the cherry on top of my happily-ever-after life.

More like happily-never-gonna-happen.

The bastard waited until I was all the way in. I’m talking head over heels, and then he pulled the rug right out from under my damn feet via text message.

Vague as hell. No concrete explanation. Just . . . gone. MIA. Ghosted.

That was a week ago.

Tonight, he was supposed to be here beside me, my date to the ball—otherwise known as Cordone Freight’s Annual Charity Gala. Instead, I’m walking the red carpet alone, smiling for cameras in a dress I bought to match a man who’s nowhere to be seen.

It’s a gorgeous dress, by the way. All lavender silk that hugs my curves in just the right way. If I weren’t so pissed off and sad, I might actually feel empowered and confident and beautiful as I walk into this gala I don’t even want to go to anymore.

Security guards welcome me inside the roped-off entrance to Centennial Park as soon as they spot my foiled invitation, ushering me—and the cluster of Gentry Baby Food executives behind me—off the red carpet my mother designed. It leads straight to an arch of gold and black balloons so extravagant I’m pretty sure it costs more than a month’s rent at my bagel-and-book shop, The Hole Story.

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, and overspilling 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—whom he’s been trying to marry me off to for ages against my will—would be a comfort in this sea of unknowns.

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

The loneliness echoes a childhood I hated—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 the 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 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.

What the ever-loving fuck is he doing here?

The nerve. The audacity. The sheer fucking balls on this guy.

His invitation was officially rescinded the moment he treated everything we’d had together like a passing ship on a foggy night. To show up here is an offense against me and everything I laid bare for him.

Before I know it, I’m moving—heels clicking, pulse pounding, anger rising—and I’m heading straight for him.

Rage boils in warning under the surface as I close the distance between us, vengeance for his betrayal my one and only goal. The love I once felt is gone, blurred and smeared into the other side of the line. I don’t feel bad about hating him, though. I feel justified, and as I get closer and the details of his lying eyes come into sharp repose, the urge to blacken the skin around them overwhelms me.

When I reach him, I don’t hesitate. I cock my arm back and let my fist fly before I can think, aiming squarely for his jaw.

But he stops it with ease, twisting the arm behind my back and pulling the front of my body against his. “Hell of a greeting, Valentina.”

“Fuck you, Shane,” I seethe, breaths coming out in heavy pants.

He tsks, and I growl.