Page 29 of Best In Class (Savannah's Best #7)

Dom

“ I ’m coming with you,” I repeat quietly, making sure my tie is in place.

“My father will be there,” Luna argues, standing behind me, glaring at me in the mirror.

“Okay.”

She’s in a black dress. It’s like a second skin. Has a slit a mile long that makes me want to slide my hands up her thighs, make her wet, make her come.

She has no jewelry on except diamond studs in her ears and a Bulgari watch. Since her dress is ankle length, she’s wearing sandals with kitten heels, and complaining about them. If it were long and hid her feet, she could’ve worn sneakers.

I watched her get dressed. It was a privilege. Because that’s something only a boyfriend gets to do.

We’re dating !

For real .

She hasn’t forgiven me. I didn’t expect her to. But she’s willing to spend time with me, to see where this might go—and that’s more than I deserve.

I feel like an absolute fool for not telling her years ago; my fear of losing her actually kept her lost to me. Now, watching her navigate the fallout with grace and resolve, I’m humbled.

Luna is loyal to her core, generous without question, and filled with more heart than most people know what to do with. And she’s brave, so much braver than I ever was.

If our roles were reversed, if she had done to me what I did to her, I don’t know that I’d have the courage to try again.

When I told her that I was grateful for her forgiveness, for her willingness to even look my way again, she didn’t miss a beat and told me to, “Put on your big boy underpants, Dom, and do better.”

She keeps me on my toes, and there is never a dull moment when I’m with her. In the past weeks since she found out the truth, we’ve made strides toward moving on from the past and living in the present.

However , I worry about the future.

We have love between us, but can we build a relationship? I believe so.

Not letting her go alone to her parents’ wedding anniversary shindig is part of that blueprint.

I know how much she hates being near her parents—and what it costs her to show up at all. She does it for Lev. But even he’s a mess when he’s around them. He loves their mother and can’t let go, no matter how deep the damage runs.

As Luna likes to say, “ Lev hasn’t been to therapy. I have .” Which, according to her, has given her the clarity and the strength to walk away from the toxicity her parents still try to pretend is tradition.

“Dom, my father is going to be an obnoxious prick,” she warns me.

“Moonbeam, I put on a fuckin’ monkey suit, I think you can see how committed I am.”

She groans in frustration. “I don’t want you to have to put up with his insulting bullshit.”

I put my hands on her shoulders. “I’m there for both you and Lev, Moonbeam. And I don’t give two shits about your father and what he has to say.”

Luna doesn’t argue further.

The Steele estate is just as I remember it—opulent in a dated, too-much-money-and-no-soul kind of way. There are gilded sconces and oil paintings of long-dead ancestors with powdered wigs and hollow eyes in the entryway.

The ballroom—yes, they have one of those—smells heavily of entitlement, the old wealth kind, and faintly of rose potpourri, like something a grandmother might stash in cut-glass bowls.

The party is in full swing when we arrive because Luna wanted to be fashionably late so she could avoid encountering her parents in the receiving line. Yeah, they have one of those as well.

We walk into the ballroom, hand in hand, and look around, assessing it like we’re doing recon before charging into battle.

A string quartet is playing something cheerful that doesn’t quite match our mood.

Women in designer cocktail dresses are milling around with wine glasses, and the men are mostly congregating near the bar, probably talking money, politics, and nothing of substance.

Our gaze falls on her mother.

Jenn drifts through the crowd like a ghost wrapped in silk.

Her gown is exquisite—fresh off the runway, no doubt, since she’s a size minus-something and built for cocaine chic.

Her eyes are glassy, her smile just a little too wide, and her balance is one stiletto away from disaster.

She’s clearly medicated, floating in a haze of benzos and vintage champagne.

“She’s high,” Luna murmurs.

“I can tell.”

I walk her to her mother, who’s laughing a bit too loudly as she talks to a couple.

“Sweetheart.” Jenn does the air kissing thing with Luna, who responds in kind.

Then she looks me up and down. “Who’s your beau?”

I grew up on this estate. My mother worked here for years. And this woman still has no clue who I am. Medicated or not, that is all kinds of fucked up.

“Dominic Calder,” Luna introduces blandly.

Jenn nods tentatively and then tilts her head to whisper rather loudly to Luna, “Does your father know? He’s…black, Luna.”

I hide a smirk.

Jenn, bless her heart , is predictable as fuck.

Lev comes up to us and we shake hands. He’s in a crisp tuxedo. He looks good. He also looks stressed.

“Lev, baby.” Jenn lifts her cheek to Lev, and he kisses it. “You’re so handsome.”

“Thanks, Mama.” There’s pity for his mother in his eyes. He takes his mother’s now-empty champagne glass from her fingers and drops it on the tray of a passing server.

“Get me another drink, darlin’,” Jenn murmurs, her eyes casting around, either looking for her husband or the bar.

Lev’s jaw tightens. He holds his hand out to his mother. “How about a dance, Mama?”

Jenn smiles and giggles. “Oh, that’ll be fun. A mother-son dance. Luna, maybe you can dance with your father. Won’t that be fun!”

“ Like a root canal ,” Luna mutters under her breath.

We watch as Lev dances with Jenn. They look like the perfect Savannah society mother and son. She’s done up to the gills, and he’s young and good-looking.

I slide a hand around Luna’s waist.

She leans into me, resting her head on my shoulder. “No one would think she’s an addict. ”

I kiss her hair. “No, but I think more people know than you think. They just don’t talk about it.”

Luna exhales sharply, her eyes flickering with irritation. “ She’s living off booze and pills, and her problem with you is your skin color.”

I tighten my hold on her and say nothing.

Being here, in this milieu, is sapping Luna of her life force. I can feel her exhaustion flowing to me in waves. Her parents drain her because, even though she’s stepped away, she’s impacted by them. In fact, she’s removed them from her life for this very reason.

“Nina is here.” I notice her boss talking to someone. “Fuck, the asshole ex of hers is on his way to her.”

Loyal Luna straightens and catches Nina’s ex Samuel Brennan, the asshole, purposefully walking toward his ex-wife.

She pats my shoulder. “I’m going to take care of this.”

“I—”

“She’s going to hate it if you take care of this.”

I watch Luna go battle her friend’s demons with her.

Of all the entitled Savannah jackasses I’ve met—and I’ve met my share—Nina’s ex still manages to rank high on the list. The man is slick—polished confidence wrapped in generational wealth.

He wears his perfectly tailored linen suit with the same arrogance he brings to approaching his ex-wife, like it’s just another performance at a society event.

I see Luna slide into position beside Nina like a shield forged of steel and sisterhood.

God, I love her .

You don’t need to know Nina long to understand she’s not a woman who accepts pity. She’s cool, composed, always pulled together in a way that makes you think nothing could crack her.

But even steel fatigues.

I know the stories—some I’ve heard from the grapevine and some from trusted sources.

Nina was once Mrs. Samuel Brennan—the poised, brilliant wife of one of the South’s most powerful architects.

She worked for his firm, designed buildings under his banner, smiled at fundraisers, raised their daughter, Bianca, and played the part of the good Southern wife.

Until she didn’t .

When she found out he was cheating—and not with just one woman, but a string of them—she didn’t slink away.

She didn’t remain stoic as is expected of society wives.

She filed for divorce on the grounds of adultery.

She named names, dragging Sam’s dirty secrets into Savannah’s gossip-hungry daylight.

She got more out of him in court than he ever intended to give—more than the prenup they signed had owed her. And instead of quietly slipping back into society’s good graces like she was supposed to, she went and started her own architectural firm. With his money.

The lady has some big, hairy balls!

In Sam’s mind, I’m sure that Savannah Lace was never meant to be a serious competitor to Brennan Architects, but she’s giving him a run for his money.

Brennan Architects is a behemoth: dozens of offices, massive institutional builds across the country, and a legacy inherited from his father.

Nina took her brains, her grit, and her Rolodex, and built a boutique powerhouse of fifty employees, and enough talent to keep stealing the kind of clients Sam thought belonged to him by birthright.

He’s been bitter ever since.

He insults Nina at functions, belittles her in whispers, and makes an ass of himself whenever she’s around by letting everyone know that he’s still affected by her.

Nina, on the other hand, behaves like Sam is a fly, one she doesn’t even bother to swat away.

Irritating, yes, but hardly more than that.

I keep a watchful eye, just in case I might need to intercede. It’s foolish of me to think that women like Nina and Luna can’t handle a man like Sam. They can probably chop him up into little pieces without getting blood on their fancy duds.

And, honestly, Luna doesn’t need backup.

She is the backup.

I watch as Sam says something and Luna laughs out loud. She’s, very obviously, not laughing with him.

Sam’s expression goes dark.

I smile to myself. Oh yeah, she’s probably taking a chunk out of him.

Nina says something, her expression amused. Sam looks like thunder.