Page 11 of Atlas (The Chaos Demons MC #6)

Ah, yes. That fun topic. I stir the cold remains of my pistachio latte like the froth might suddenly offer wisdom. “There’s not much to say,” I admit. “A few dates. One almost-relationship. Nothing worth putting in a scrapbook.”

“Why?” he asks, not cruel, just curious.

I sigh, giving a half-shrug. “I used to think it was me. Like maybe I wasn’t enough.

Not pretty enough or interesting enough or .

. . whatever enough.” He frowns, and suddenly his whole- body changes, like I’ve triggered something in him, something protective.

“But then I realised,” I go on, trying to play it cool, “I just hadn’t met someone who made me want to stay around long enough to show them the real me. ”

His gaze sharpens. “You’ve been waiting for the wrong people.”

I smile, soft and a little sad. “Story of my life.”

He stretches, muscles shifting under the sleeves of his t-shirt. His knuckles are rough. His nails are short. He looks like someone who’s built things, broken things, fought for things. He looks like someone who feels too much and hides it behind smirks and sarcasm.

I’m in trouble.

“So,” I say, desperate to shift the conversation before I spontaneously combust, “if this was a date, hypothetically, what would happen next?”

He leans forward again, slow and deliberate. “Easy,” he says. “I’d walk you home.”

I snort. “Wow. Living on the edge.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” He grins. “I’m thinking very inappropriate things while doing it.”

I nearly choke on my latte.

Yeah. I’m definitely in trouble.

Anita

I drop into the seat opposite Tessa and release a breath that feels like it’s been stuck in my chest for days.

She glances up from her laptop. “You okay?”

I give a shrug that I hope reads as not now , but she doesn’t buy it.

“Okay,” she says, snapping the laptop shut, “out with it.”

I stare at the table for a beat, gathering the chaos into something I can say out loud. “It’s just been a rough couple days. Damien won’t let me see Leo, I walked out on dinner with my parents, and Atlas isn’t speaking to me.”

Tessa sits up straighter, her expression shifting like I’ve just given her a test she wasn’t prepared for. “How come?”

She says it casually, but there’s something off in her tone—a little too light, a little too rehearsed.

I narrow my eyes. “What?”

“Nothing,” she replies far too quickly.

“Tessa.” She won’t meet my eyes now. “Has Atlas said something?” She shakes her head, but it’s too fast, too forced. “Tessa,” I repeat, firmer this time. “What do you know?”

She groans and leans back. “Okay, but don’t kill the messenger. He went on a date the other night.”

The words hit harder than I expect. I inhale sharply and try not to let it show. “Oh.”

“I don’t know if I should be telling you,” she adds, guilt creeping into her voice. “He never said not to, but . . .”

“It’s fine,” I cut in, waving a hand like it’s no big deal. “I’ve been telling him to go on dates for months.” She gives me a look—it’s soft, pitying even, like she sees right through me. “As long as he’s happy,” I add.

“He seems happy,” she murmurs, and my heart gives a sharp, traitorous twist.

The silence stretches between us before she changes the subject. “And you’re seeing Anthony now. How’s that going?”

I force a smile. “Good.”

A lie.

“He’s so nice,” I continue, like I’m reading off a list of things I should want. “In fact, he’s asked me to go to a ball this weekend.”

Tessa perks up. “A ball? As in big dresses and cute hair?”

I nod. “Yeah, it’s a business thing, but he needed a plus-one.”

“Great.” Then, without missing a beat, “And has he booked that weekend away he promised?”

I lift a shoulder. “I’m not sure.”

She frowns. “The girls will be disappointed you’re not coming to the club on Saturday. They were complaining last night about how they hardly see you anymore.”

My stomach sinks. I used to go all the time. Before everything got messy with Atlas. Before I stopped feeling like I belonged.

“What’s happening on Saturday?” I ask, though I already know it’s something I’ll probably regret missing.

“Axel’s throwing a barbeque. Reckons we all need cheering up.”

The ballroom is exactly the kind of place you’d expect Anthony to belong to with chandeliers that drip crystal, a string quartet in the corner, and waiters who somehow manage to glide rather than walk. Everyone here seems polished, filtered, filtered again.

Including me.

Or at least, I tried. It wasn’t an easy task after years of snubbing this kind of event.

I smooth down the front of my dress and take a breath as Anthony returns with two glasses of champagne.

He hands me one with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You look beautiful tonight,” he says, then adds, “though you really should’ve worn your hair up. It elongates your neck.”

I nod, swallowing the sting. “Next time.”

He clinks his glass to mine. “To us.”

I echo the words, but they taste flat in my mouth. We sip. He immediately starts scanning the room, already more interested in who’s watching us than in me.

“Remember, that’s Harrow from the board,” he murmurs as we start to walk through the crowd. “And that’s his wife. She runs a charity or something. Smile.”

I smile.

We stop in front of a couple, and Anthony slides straight into charming mode, introducing me with the kind of rehearsed warmth that makes me feel like I’m part of a presentation.

I laugh at the right moments, nod when expected, and try not to fidget under the weight of polite, slightly condescending small talk.

Eventually, the couple are swept away by someone shinier, and we move to the edge of the room. Anthony’s hand rests lightly on my lower back, a constant reminder of his presence . . . or his control. I haven’t quite worked out which.

“You did well,” he says, brushing a speck of lint from my shoulder. “I mean, a little less nervous energy would be good next time, but still. Proud of you.”

I nod again. That word, proud , always lands strangely when he says it. Like I’m a student, not a partner.

“Thanks,” I say quietly.

We dance for a little while, or rather, he dances, and I try to follow. He’s good at leading. Of course he is. He’s good at being in charge of things. People. Me.

At one point, when I catch sight of myself in one of the wall mirrors, I barely recognise the woman staring back. Perfect posture. Perfect makeup. Perfect dress. But there’s something vacant in her eyes, like she’s not sure how she got here again, in this world.

Later, we’re seated at a long table covered in gold-dipped menus and floral arrangements. The conversations swell and fade like tides, and I try to join in where I can. Anthony’s hand rests casually on my thigh under the table, but it’s not intimate. It’s possessive.

When dessert arrives, he leans in close, his voice low. “You hardly touched your main. Are you feeling alright?”

“Just not that hungry,” I whisper.

“You have to be careful,” he says, eyes still on the table. “You’re naturally slim, which is lovely, but skipping meals can make you look drawn. Especially under lights like these.”

I nod and stab at my dessert, even though I feel sick now.

Compliment, correction. Compliment, correction. That’s how he does it.

I don’t know when I started noticing it—the way every kind word is a velvet-wrapped critique. The way he shapes me, or tries to. It’s happened much faster this time. Damien was slower, building me up over a year or so before showing his true colours.

Maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I’m being dramatic. But deep down, I know I’m not, because I’ve seen it all before. First with my parents, then with Damien, and now, I’m here again.

We’ve just finished dessert when I spot them.

My mother’s dress is ivory with silver beading that probably cost more than this entire ball, and my father is in his usual uniform—black tux, tight smile, eyes that sweep the room like everyone’s beneath him. I feel my spine stiffen.

“Everything okay?” Anthony asks.

I nod, trying to keep my head to the side, praying they don’t spot me.

“Anita?”

I briefly close my eyes at the sound of my mother’s voice, turning in her direction and forcing a smile. “Mother, what a wonderful surprise.”

“What are you doing here?” she asks as I stand and lean over to kiss her cheek.

“I was invited,” I say, glancing to Anthony, who also stands, straightening his jacket.

“Anthony Carlisle,” he says, holding out his hand to my father, who grabs it firmly and shakes.

“George Jenson, and this is my wife, Carol.”

“Lovely to meet you,” Anthony says, his arm snaking around my waist. “At last.”

I want to point out that we’ve only been on a few dates, five max, so meeting my parents wasn’t really on the agenda for at least another few months.

Anthony continues, “I’ve heard a lot about you both. It’s great to finally meet the people responsible for raising such a remarkable woman.”

I should call him out on his lie. I haven’t told him a single thing about my parents, but I remain silent, knowing somewhere in the back of my mind that correcting him in front of them will piss him off.

“I’m sorry to say Anita hasn’t told us a thing about you,” my father replies, shooting me an irritated look. “And she ran out on our dinner plans the other day, so we didn’t get to catch up.”

“I apologise for that,” I mutter. “I had an emergency come up.”

“Maybe we can rearrange and all four of us can go for dinner,” Anthony suggests. “I’d love to hear more about your work,” he says, looking at my father.

“I didn’t know you were interested in law,” I say, the words practised.

He side-eyes me, waits a beat, then says, “Corporate law is different to criminal law.”

I almost scoff, but my father jumps in, delighted with the comparison.

He slaps Anthony on the back, and they begin to walk towards the bar.

“I tried my best to have her work for me,” he says.

“She was determined to set up herself in criminal law. If she’d have stuck with me, she’d be partner by now. ”

“And it wouldn’t be on my own merit,” I say, but neither hear me as they get lost in business talk, leaving me to make conversation with my mother about her book club.