Page 47 of Dual

ANNA

It foolishly only occurred tome that it might be dangerous to have my picture plastered everywhere right as we approached the venue. I hadn't realized there'd be paparazzi here.

I mean yes, I was careful to make a rule where everyone inside has to put their cameras in a locked bag for the night so there won't be any photography, but that's only so that everyone, councilmen and celebrities alike, will feel at ease without worrying about ending up going viral online tomorrow for some embarrassing gaffe or other.

But was it also subconsciously because I knew it wasn't safe for anyone to be takingmypicture, too?

Fuck, is that why Mads has been so grouchy about me putting on this gala? Then why didn't she just come out and say so in our journal?

There's no time to noodle on it, though, because the limo has pulled around back and I'm stepping out into the cool December air and being hustled through the back by our catering director so I can meet up with Jennifer, Domhnall's chief operating officer, inside the grand ballroom.

"Wow," is all I can say, looking around. "It's more beautiful than I imagined."

Inside, the ballroom has been transformed into a winter wonderland. Enormous Christmas trees draped in silver and blue decorations tower in the corners. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over everything. Ice sculptures glitter at the center of each table. A string quartet plays softly in the background.

"Anna! Domhnall!" Jessica embraces me warmly right as I glance over my shoulder to see Domhnall stepping up and sliding his hand to the small of my back. "Everything looks magnificent. The committee really outdid itself this year. Thanks in no small part to you, Anna."

He shakes hands with Jessica's husband as she and I fall into conversation about decorations and the menu. Around us, board members, executives, clients, and donors all mingle with champagne flutes in hand.

For the next hour, Domhn and I make the rounds. I'm a little surprised by how at ease I feel chatting with the board members and donors. Domhnall's hand remains a steadypresence at the small of my back, occasionally giving me a reassuring squeeze when I start talking too fast about my passion for the children's literacy foundation we're raising money for tonight.

"You're a natural at this," he whispers in my ear when we have a brief moment alone by the champagne fountain.

I laugh, shaking my head. "I'm terrified. These people have more money than I can even comprehend."

"And they all adore you," he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You've charmed them completely."

I take a sip of champagne, feeling the bubbles dance on my tongue. The string quartet transitions to "Carol of the Bells," and I can't help but sway slightly to the music. The ballroom looks absolutely magical—icicle lights drip from the ceiling, and the light reflecting off the ice sculptures casts dancing patterns across the walls. It's everything I imagined and more.

Christmas was always something I dreamed about from afar. Certainly, holidays growing up in my cold, violent household were nothing to celebrate. They were just like every other day. But I'd seen about Christmas on TV and in movies, and I dreamed about nights like these...

"Mrs. Harrison wants to double her donation," Domhnall says, nodding toward an elderly woman across the room who's wearing enough diamonds to fund a small country. "She said your enthusiasm for the reading program was infectious."

"Really?" I feel a blush warm my cheeks. "I thought I was rambling."

"You were passionate. There's a difference."

I catch his gaze, seeing pride there. It makes my chest swell with emotion. For so long, I've felt like a burden to him—damaged, complicated, too much work. But tonight, standing beside him as an equal partner, helping his company with their charitable efforts, I feel... whole. Useful. Happy. Beautiful.

"Should we dance?" I ask suddenly, happiness overflowing.

His smile broadens. "I thought you'd never ask."

He leads me to the dance floor, where several couples are already swaying to the music. His hand finds my waist, holding me with a perfect balance of firmness and gentleness. I place my hand on his shoulder, feeling the expensive fabric of his suit beneath my fingers.

"You never texted," he says quietly as we begin to move.

I blink. "Texted?"

"After you went in the back entrance. I asked if you got inside safely."

"Oh!" I feel a flutter of panic. "I'm so sorry. I completely forgot."

He studies my face, and I can almost see him working to determine if I'm telling the truth or if there was another reason I didn't respond. Does he think I'm keeping secrets? Oh, or is he checking to see if I'm still... me? I hate that he has to do this constant mental calculation, always wondering which version of me he's with. It's exhausting for both of us.

"It's alright," he says finally, his expression softening. "You're here now. That's what matters."

I lean into him, resting my cheek against his chest as we sway to the music. I can hear his heartbeat through his shirt, strong and steady. Like him.