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I drink my soup. And let the carnage onscreen wash over me.

And I wonder if the rock of agony in my stomach will ever leave me.

* * *

The dress arrives two days later. I refuse to open the Valentino bag and shoe box when Bethany shows it to me. I ignore her huff as she goes to hang it in my closet.

The diamonds arrive two days before the Friday event. This time, I’m alone at my apartment, having finally convinced Bethany that I can take care of myself and Jeigerhamster, my pet hamster, and that I’m going to Washington D.C.

My hands shake—I wonder if I’ll ever stop shaking—as I carefully pry open the Harry Winston velvet box. I gasp at the sheer amount of diamonds on display and swiftly shut the box again.

But my fingers curl around the velvet exterior, and I stumble to the living room. The reality that Mason has sent the items, despite how we left each other, confuses me. It also fans a tiny flame of hope for a life that I know I shouldn’t build on.

He left the yacht the same day I walked out of his suite, and despite having my phone number, he hasn’t been in touch.

My heart lurches when it occurs to me, he could’ve made the dress and necklace arrangements the day I said yes and never got round to cancelling them.

I throw the box on the coffee table and pace my living room, torn between calling him and just turning up in D.C.

I pull out my phone and finger the buttons. My breath strangles with yearning at the thought of hearing his voice, but it’s the chance to see his face again, even if it is for one last time, that makes me put the phone down.

I’m going to D.C. And if there’s the smallest chance that I can see and talk to Mason again, I’ll take it.

* * *

Do not pass out. Do not fucking pass out.

I recite the words to myself as I lift the hem of my black sleeveless gown and quicken my steps. I’m ushered into the State Dining Room, where the Industry Innovators dinner is being held.

An accident on the Brooklyn Bridge held up the limo taking me to Teterboro Airport, and even the efficiency of travelling by private jet couldn’t save me from being late to the dinner.

“Right this way, Miss Benson.”

I follow the usher as we weave through tables holding seated guests. I keep my flame-hot embarrassed face down and pin a smile on my lips when I’m shown to the last empty seat in the room.

An elderly woman smiles at me and I smile back. “I’m so sorry for being late. There was a pile up on the Brook?—”

The words strangle in my throat when I look up into a pixie-like face and a pair of eyes I’ve only seen once before in a photo.

Cassie Sinclair, Mason’s ex-wife, is staring back at me with unabashed curiosity and an almost pitying smile on her lightly glossed mouth.

Shock lodges in my chest as I glance one along and encounter Mason’s dark, intense hazel eyes. He looks a picture of perfect and suave health, while I know my face is an unpleasant caricature of gold-fish-in-death-throes.

I can’t move. Or breathe. Or think beyond the fact that Mason has come to the dinner with his ex-wife!

Bile rises in my gut and settles at the back of my throat.

When the woman next to me addresses me, I nod and clasp my shaking hand in my lap.

Drinks are served. I gulp down fine white wine without a thought to taste or vintage. I respond to small talk with monosyllables and I don’t ever look back across the table.

The moment the announcement is made for a twenty-five-minute mingle before the awards ceremony starts, I jump from the chair and head for the door.

An usher steps in front of me, a solid wall of courteous muscle. “May I help you, ma’am?”

“Yes, I need to leave.”

“I’m sorry, guests are required to stay until the ceremony is over.”