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Something about that stings. “I wasn’t assuming anything.”

“That came out wrong.” He tucks a tangled lock behind my ear. “What I should have said is that I haven’t since Talitha. It’s not something I do, Novalee.”

“No need to explain. I understand.”

“Do you?” He lifts my chin, forcing my gaze back to his. “I know you have complicated feelings for the chancellor, and your love for Sebastian goes without saying. But tonight, you and me…what should have been merely physical was a bit more, don’t you think?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“Fair enough. You’re not ready to define this, just like I’m not ready to open up certain parts of myself.”

“Like your personal space.” My tone is wry, all hurt gone at reading between the lines of his explanation.

He doesn’t deny it, and yet his expression is unguarded in a way I didn’t think was possible for the always-in-control Oliver Whitney.

What passed between us tonight was brutal and beautiful, raw enough to reach something untouched inside me.

For the first time since losing Sebastian, I wasn’t spiraling in grief. I was alive, every inch of my skin tingling, every breath steeped in sensation.

Oliver gave that to me.

And I suspect I gave him something, too.

Not solace or healing, but an intense union between two souls still carrying the ones they lost.

His grief wears the name Talitha.

Mine will always whisper Sebastian.

We may never be whole again.

But in this moment, tangled in each other’s arms, we don’t have to be.

20

The flight is a blur of tinted windows and restless sleep. We arrived late last night at the sprawling Davenport Estate, the chauffeur guiding us through an iron gate that separates the brick mansion from Portland’s glittering skyline.

After a fitful night, I spent the day drifting between jet lag and anxiety in my private suite, with the promised guard stationed outside my door.

Oliver kept his word.

“You look stunning,” he says, offering his arm. As I slide mine into the crook of his elbow, his fingers glide along my skin, leaving a possessive trail. “And I’m pleased you’re wearing your own design.”

“Thank you. I worked around the clock to finish it in time.”

The sweetheart gown drapes like liquid sin, sculpted from the same burgundy silk that once hung unfinished on a mannequin. What began as a skeletal vision now clings to me, every seam a quiet resurrection.

Oliver looks equally devastating in a dark gray tux, tailored to the sculpted build of his frame. A hint of cedar and smoke envelops me as he steps close, sending an arrow of need straight to my core. He escorts me downstairs with two security guards in tow, who fade into the background as we enter the ballroom. I adjust the black mask covering the upper half of my face and can’t help but think…

Another damn masquerade.

Where Ford’s bash flaunted its debauchery behind gauzy curtains, this gathering hides its true nature beneath crystal chandeliers and champagne flutes. Society’s elite mingle over hors d’oeuvres and polite conversation, none the wiser to what will unfold later tonight for a select few.

But maybe that’s part of the allure—masks, food, and wine before disappearing into parts unknown while the silent auction winds down.

The contrast is striking.

Here, women glitter in proper designer gowns, with no lingerie-inspired numbers in sight, while men stand tall in tailored tuxedos. A string quartet plays in the corner. Along one wall, the auction table gleams with curated charity items that disguise the evening’s true agenda.