The Vault was dark, smelling of expensive cigars and aged leather. Jazz music played softly.
Brittain sat in his usual corner booth. He nursed a glass of scotch. He was brooding. He hadn't heard from Cara in three days. The silence was deafening. He was starting to get worried, though he would never admit it.
Miles Turner sat across from him. Miles was looking at his phone, grinning.
"Damn, Austin," Miles said. "Your little bird flew the coop and found a new nest."
Brittain frowned. "What are you talking about?"
Miles turned his phone around. "Look."
It was a clip from the press conference. Cara in the red dress. Brady brushing her hair back. The look in her eyes.
Brittain felt his blood run cold. His stomach twisted into a knot.
"That's PR," Brittain said. His voice was tight. "It's fake."
But he couldn't stop staring. He stared at Brady's hand on her arm. He stared at the way she leaned into him.
Just then, Caryn arrived. She was wearing white lace. She slid into the booth next to Brittain and looped her arm through his.
"Sorry I'm late," she cooed. "Jordon is being a nightmare again."
Brittain barely acknowledged her. He was fixated on Miles's phone.
Caryn followed his gaze. "Oh," she said. Her voice dripped with fake pity. "She looks... desperate. Trying a bit too hard, isn't she?"
Miles signaled the bartender. "Hey, put the entertainment news on the big screen."
"No," Brittain started to say.
But the screen flickered to life. It was a live feed from the premiere after-party.
There she was. Cara. She was laughing. Her head was thrown back, her neck exposed. She looked alive. She looked electric.
Brittain felt a sharp pain in his chest. He realized he had never seen her laugh like that. Not once.
On the screen, the reporter asked them to play a game. Charades.
Brittain watched as they moved in sync. They had a rhythm.
Caryn tugged at his sleeve. "Brittain, can we order champagne?"
Brittain ignored her. He was watching Cara's hand rest on Brady's chest.
The glass in his hand creaked.
