Page 39 of Gilded

MALIA

T his is so much harder than I imagined.

Harder to face people and talk enthusiastically about their donations. Miserable to have Soren glued to my side as I talk with guests. Impossible not to search for Luka every other minute, only to notice how women swarm around him like bees to honey.

Even crueler is the realization that this will be my life starting tomorrow. All without Luka’s protection. Without Luka’s attention. Without Luka’s affection.

Without Luka.

This venue is a modern “mansion” in the heart of Manhattan with over eleven thousand square feet of pure luxury, called Luxe Haven.

While it’s not a separate structure but two floors in a high-rise, it flaunts the opulence of a mansion.

But this space is different from other mansions we’ve rented for events.

Different from my father’s numerous homes that are historic and dark.

This space is modern and pristine. It’s light and open, with big windows and shiny surfaces. A place that would help me relax if I didn’t have this orangutan making my skin crawl. His touch feels like nails on a blackboard.

The looks others have given me over the last two hours have not gone unnoticed. The ew , what is she thinking or that’s disgusting or what’s wrong with her messages come across loud and clear.

This is a new problem I have no idea how to handle. I never thought about how Soren would repel people. It reminds me of oil and water. No matter how much you shake it, the two never blend. My father is a master manipulator and had everyone thinking he walked on water before the event ended.

On the other hand, Soren isn’t anywhere near as polished or practiced, and he’s doing what he did with Luka when they met, brandishing his ego to drag himself up to the level of these guests.

Not only doesn’t it work, it doesn’t go over well.

People I used to talk to for hours now make excuses to end conversations.

I foresee losing a lot of donors because of Soren, and ultimately, I’ll be the one to pay.

I’m guessing he’s realizing how desperate he looks to others, because he gets angrier as the night goes on.

The enormity of my situation is hitting full force. Despite standing in the midst of two hundred and fifty of the wealthiest and most powerful people in New York, I’ve never felt more alone or helpless.

Mark Hudson, owner of the New York Yankees, touches my arm, pulling me back into the conversation. “Are you feeling all right? You seem under the weather.”

I force a smile, but I’m painfully aware that his wife, a woman I always looked forward to talking to at these events, has squeezed herself into every other conversation circle, avoiding me like the plague.

The same way so many other women are treating me tonight.

I didn’t think I could feel any worse, but the leper treatment is just another fifty-pound shackle around my heart, dragging it to my feet.

“I apologize,” I tell him. “I just have a lot on my mind.”

“Weddings can do that to a girl,” Mark says, his brows knitted in concern. “I hope you’re not catching your father’s flu.”

I didn’t expect so many people to ask me about my father’s absence and had to concoct a spontaneous flu alibi.

And what a fucking fantastic idea to leverage—being too sick to attend a function. But I quickly realize I’d have to be comatose to get out of this wedding.

The homicide-suicide plan flashes back to life. Luka flushed the pills he found in my room down the toilet, but when he left, I called the doctor and asked for more. Right here, right now, there is nothing more inviting to me than oblivion.

“Thank you for your concern,” I tell Mark. “I think I’ll move things along here so I can get home early. I could use the sleep.”

I smile at Soren. “If that’s okay with you, of course.”

With Mark standing here, all Soren can do is agree.

“If you’ll excuse me.” I step away from Soren. “I’m going to stop by the restroom. Good to see you, Mark.”

“You too.” When I start to turn, he says, “I’ll see you tomorrow. You’re going to make one stunning bride.”

I force another smile, but it feels as stiff as cardboard. “Thank you.”

“Vickie and I were married at Saint Patrick’s. It’s pretty incredible.”

I’m not sure why, exactly, but I pause and slide back into the conversation with “Really? Tell me about it.”