"Let go, Eve," Charls commanded, his voice a low growl near her ear. He tried to pry her fingers from his lapel, but her grip was surprisingly strong, fueled by hysteria.
"No!" Eve wailed, burying her face back into his chest. "Don't leave me again! I'll be better! I won't be boring!"
The whispers around them were turning into excited shouts.
"Did she just say she won't be boring?"
"Is she begging him not to dump her?"
"I thought they hated each other!"
A paparazzi photographer, bold and hungry, stepped past the velvet rope, his camera flashing rapidly in their faces. Click. Click. Click.
Charls was blinded for a second. His Chief of Staff, Harrison, materialized from the shadows, shoving his hand in front of the lens. "Back off! No photos!"
But it was too late. The damage was done.
Charls looked down at Eve. She was shaking against him, oblivious to the sharks circling. He felt a surge of protectiveness that annoyed him. He hated her, theoretically. But he hated the vultures with cameras more.
"Harrison," Charls barked over the noise. "Clear a path. Now."
"Sir, the car is out back, but the alley is blocked by a delivery truck. We have to go out the front."
Charls cursed. He couldn't drag her. She couldn't walk.
He sighed, a sound of pure resignation. He bent down, swept his arm behind her knees, and hoisted her up into his arms.
Eve gasped as the world tilted. She instinctively threw her arms around his neck, her face pressing into the crook of his shoulder.
"You're holding me," she murmured into his skin, her voice wet with tears. "I knew you still loved me."
"Shut up, Eve," Charls gritted out.
He marched through the crowd, his face a mask of icy fury. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, a mixture of awe and shock on their faces. Charls Wiley, the Ice King of Wall Street, carrying his rival like a bride.
Harrison and two bodyguards formed a wedge, pushing people aside.
They burst out of the club doors onto the sidewalk. The night air was crisp. A wall of paparazzi was waiting. The flashes erupted like a lightning storm.
"Mr. Wiley! Is it true you two are engaged?"
"Eve! Why are you crying?"
"Is this a merger or a marriage?"
As Charls moved toward his SUV, he saw Eve's driver, Thomas, trying to push through the throng of photographers. "Ms. Franks!" Thomas yelled, his face a mask of alarm. Charls's bodyguard moved swiftly, intercepting him. "Sir, Mr. Wiley will see to her safety. Follow us to the hospital." The bodyguard's voice was low but firm, an undeniable command that left Thomas frozen in place, watching as Charls used his hand to press Eve's face firmly into his chest, shielding her from the photos. It looked like a romantic gesture. In reality, he just didn't want the world to see her snot-streaked face.
"Move!" Harrison shouted, opening the back door of the waiting SUV.
Charls practically threw Eve onto the leather bench seat and climbed in after her. He slammed the door shut, cutting off the blinding lights.
"Go," he ordered the driver. "Just drive."
The car surged forward.
Inside the dim cabin, the smell of vodka and Eve's expensive floral perfume was suffocating. Eve slumped against the door, her sobbing quieting down to hiccuping breaths.
"Where are we taking her?" the driver asked, eyeing them in the rearview mirror.
"Franks Estate," Charls said, rubbing his temples.
At the word Estate, Eve jolted upright. Her eyes flew open, wild and panicked.
"No!" she screamed. "Not home! I can't go home!"
The emptiness of her apartment, the gifts she had bought for Andre, the memories-it was a haunted house to her now.
"Eve, stop it," Charls said, his patience snapping. "You're drunk. You need to sleep it off."
"I won't go back there!" She lunged toward the front seat. "Stop the car! Let me out!"
"Hey!" Charls grabbed her waist, hauling her back. "Sit down!"
"You don't understand!" She struggled, her elbow catching him in the ribs. She was stronger than she looked. "He's everywhere in that house! I have to find him! I have to ask him why!"
"Ask who?" Charls demanded, pinning her arms to her sides. "Ask me? I'm right here!"
"Not you!" Eve cried, her logic fracturing. She looked at him, and for a second, the illusion broke. She saw Charls. Not Andre.
The confusion made her panic worse. "Let me out!"
She reached for the door handle. The car was moving at 50 miles per hour.
"Don't touch that!" Charls lunged across her to lock the door.
In the chaos, Eve's knee hit the driver's arm hard. The steering wheel jerked to the left.
