The silence in the booth was deafening.
Averie was gone. The only things left of her were the faint scent of her perfume and the diamond ring glittering on the table like a tiny, mocking star.
Preston sat frozen, the cold, sticky whiskey dripping down his collar. He could feel dozens of pairs of eyes on him, their gazes like tiny needles pricking his skin. The whispers started, a low hiss that spread through the club like a virus.
His friends, who had been laughing at his jokes moments before, now looked anywhere but at him.
Carter Sinclair, who knew both Preston and Fielding, had a look of profound disappointment on his face.
Kylie, recovering from her shock, reached for a napkin. "Preston, let me help you..."
Preston slapped her hand away. A raw, guttural sound escaped his throat.
"Get out."
The words were a low growl, filled with all the humiliation and rage he couldn't direct at Averie.
Kylie's face crumpled. "But... Preston..."
He didn't want to look at her. He couldn't stand the sight of her. He fumbled for his wallet, pulled out a thick wad of cash and threw it on the table in front of her.
"Take it. And disappear."
Tears welled in her eyes. She snatched the money, a look of pure humiliation on her face, and scrambled out of the booth. She ran from the club, her sobs lost in the returning thrum of the music.
One of his friends, a junior partner at his firm, cleared his throat. "Preston, man. Maybe you can call her. Explain..."
"Explain what?" Preston snapped, his voice cracking. He shot to his feet, a frantic energy coursing through him. "How did she even know I was here? I told her I was working late."
He pulled out his phone, his fingers shaking as he dialed Averie's number. It went straight to voicemail.
"The number you have dialed is not available."
He tried again. Voicemail.
He sent a rapid-fire series of texts.
"Baby, please. Let me explain."
"It was a mistake. She means nothing."
"You can't just do this to us."
No reply—she'd blocked him. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut.
Carter watched him, his brow furrowed. "Preston, you need to calm down."
But Preston's mind was racing, tumbling through the events of the evening.
"Fielding," he said suddenly, looking around the room. "Where's Fielding Everett? He was supposed to meet us here."
Another friend shrugged. "He texted Carter earlier. Said he got tied up in a last-minute meeting. Couldn't make it."
A last-minute meeting. The coincidence was a bitter pill. Fielding was always conveniently absent when things went wrong. Or conveniently present when an opportunity arose.
He remembered the last few weeks. Fielding's casual questions about the wedding plans. His offhand remarks about how lucky Preston was to have a woman like Averie. He'd thought it was friendly banter. Now, it felt like reconnaissance.
A cold, sickening feeling washed over him. He'd been played.
His friends started making their excuses, mumbling about early meetings and tired wives. No one wanted to be near the blast zone.
Carter was the last to leave. He placed a hand on Preston's shoulder. "Go home, Preston. And maybe call your mother. She's going to hear about this sooner rather than later."
The reminder of his mother, of the family, of the merger the Hayes-Stein marriage was supposed to cement, made his stomach turn. This wasn't just about losing Averie. It was about losing a dynasty.
Soon, he was alone in the booth. The discarded ring on the table seemed to pulse with a cold light, mocking him. He snatched it, the metal biting into his palm as he clenched his fist. The pain was a welcome distraction.
His phone buzzed violently. A notification from a private social media group. A friend had sent him a screenshot. Someone had filmed Averie's exit. The grainy video was already making the rounds, captioned: Trouble in paradise? Hayes-Stein engagement on the rocks.
He let out a roar of frustration and hurled his phone against the leather seat.
He had to find her. He had to fix this. Not for love. For survival.
He grabbed his jacket and stumbled out of the club, ignoring the stares and whispers that followed him. He got into his Aston Martin and tore out into the New York night, his mind a chaotic storm.
Where would she go? Not her apartment; they were renovating it. Her parents' place. The Stein mansion. She would have to go there.
He raced across town, the city lights a blur of red and white. He would wait for her. He would apologize, beg, promise her anything. He would force her to listen.
He pulled up across the street from the imposing gates of the Stein estate, cutting the engine. He would wait all night if he had to.
He stared at the silent, dark house, clinging to the desperate hope that she would come home.
He had no idea she was already in another man's car, being driven to a world he could never set foot in.
