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Chapter twenty-six

Liam

T he cameras hit us like artillery fire.

Sharp bursts of light explode from every angle, turning the red carpet into a war zone of strobes and manufactured smiles. I’ve done this parade enough times to know how to hit the angles, where to look, when to fake the grin.

But tonight…tonight I’ve got Katarina beside me, and she’s about as warm as the fucking tundra.

Her heels click against the pavement like live rounds—sharp, mechanical, merciless.

She’s here, sure, but it’s just flesh and bone.

Whatever part of her used to lean into me is gone.

I slide a hand to her waist—half for the cameras, half because I need to feel she hasn’t disappeared completely.

She doesn’t pull away, but there’s no give. Just polished stone.

“Liam! Over here!”

“Katarina, this way!”

The vultures circle, desperate for the shot. Canyon Bay’s power couple. What they don’t see is that I’m bleeding out next to her, and she’s too pissed to notice.

I lean in, voice low. “You, okay?”

She nods like a robot. “Perfect.”

A lie so brittle it might crack if I breathe too hard.

The ballroom is a mess of power suits, plastic smiles, and ambition wrapped in designer labels. Classical music hums in the background, but all I hear is the echo of her heels walking away from me like I never mattered.

She hits the bar like it’s a bunker. One drink order, spine straight, eyes scanning for threats. She's not here to play. She's here to survive.

I down a whiskey neat in two pulls, hoping the burn cuts through the noise in my head.

“Liam Steele,” a voice purrs beside me. I turn to find a bottle-blonde in silver sequins and desperation. She’s familiar in the worst way—fake, over-accessorized, and too sure of her place in the room. “Samantha. From the stadium tour?”

Of course.

I nod, disinterested. “Right.”

“I was hoping I’d see you tonight.” She touches my arm. Overdone nails, cold fingers.

I step back. “Didn’t peg you for the hopeful type.”

She laughs, glancing toward the bar. “You came with the nutritionist?”

My jaw tightens. “Yeah.”

“Interesting choice.” Her tone drops just enough to make me want to knock over the bar.

“Meaning?”

“Oh, nothing bad. She just seems... sweet. Simple. Not who I’d expect next to a guy like you.”

I stare, silent. Waiting.

“I just thought you’d go for someone more polished. More... your league.”

My blood goes quiet.

“Someone like you?” I ask, voice flat.

She leans in like she’s about to share a secret. “Physically speaking, I mean. She’s not exactly model material, Liam.”

And there it is.

I step forward. Close enough she has to tilt her chin to hold my gaze. “You don’t get to talk about her.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“She’s more than you’ll ever be. She’s brilliant, real, and so fucking beautiful it makes my chest hurt. So next time you feel like opening your mouth... don’t.”

Samantha blanches, stammers, and backs off so fast she nearly topples her wine.

I turn away before I say something worse. Before I prove why I have a reputation for throwing punches.

And that’s when I see Katarina.

She’s across the room, standing by the cocktail tables. Except now? She looks like she’s barely holding it together. Shoulders rigid. Wine glass clutched like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.

Shit. She heard. Or enough of it to twist the knife.

I shove past the sea of designer fabric and camera-ready faces. The noise falls away as I close the distance, as she turns and nails me with a look that freezes me mid-step.

“Katarina—”

“Enjoying your fan club?” Her voice cuts clean and cold.

“It’s not what you think.”

“Really?” Her brow lifts that dangerous mix of sweet and scathing.

“Because from where I’m standing, it kinda looked like you were vibing with Malibu Barbie. The limited edition—now with extra filler and less emotional depth.”

She takes a sip of her wine, steady now. “I’m sure she’s a dream—if you’re into women who only cry when their spray tan gets wet.”

Fuck.

“Did you hear what I told her.”

“I heard enough.” She takes a sip. Her hands are shaking, but she doesn’t give me the satisfaction of seeing it. “Don’t worry, Liam. I get it. I’m the consolation prize in heels.”

“That’s not—”

“It’s fine.” her voice breaks on the last word, and that crack nearly undoes me, like a fucking fault line splitting open in the middle of my chest. “We both know what this is.”

“No.” I step in, crowding her space. “We don’t.”

I steer her toward an empty corner, away from the eyes and the noise. She doesn’t stop me, but she doesn’t give me anything either. Just stares straight ahead, waiting for me to disappoint her again.

“Didn’t you hear what I said to her?” I ask, my voice low, tight. I step closer, like I can somehow make her believe it if I close the space between us.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stares at me like she’s waiting for the next lie to drop.

“I told her you weren’t just someone I worked with.

I told her to keep your name out of her mouth before I made her regret opening it.

” I step in closer, my voice low and hard.

“She tried to reduce you to a fucking accessory—I made it clear she could shove her gold-plated bullshit and plastic smile straight and fuck off.”

Her lips part slightly, but she doesn’t speak. Her fingers tighten around her wineglass like she’s bracing for impact.

“You think I’d just stand there and let anyone look down on you?” My voice breaks, a note of desperation slipping through. “She tried to shrink you down to nothing, and I couldn’t let her. I won’t.”

She blinks, just once. Her armor doesn’t fall, but it shifts.

“You defended me?” she says quietly.

“I did.”

“Why?”

When she opens her mouth, all I could think about was how fast I wanted to shut it for her. Tell her all the reasons she’s worth fighting for.

But I keep it simple.

“ Because I couldn’t stand there and let someone pretend you’re anything less than the best thing that’s happened to me in years. ”

She finally looks at me—really looks at me—and it damn near takes me out. Because beneath the anger in her eyes, there's pain. Wounded hope. That part of her still waiting to be chosen.

And fuck if I’m not already choosing her with everything I’ve got.

We’re close now. So close I can see the way her lashes tremble, the pulse fluttering at her throat. I should step back. I should play it safe. But nothing about her makes me want to be careful.

So I kiss her.

Not for PR. Not for damage control. Not because anyone’s watching.

Because if I don’t taste her again, I might fucking implode.

She kisses me back with all the fire I’ve missed, all the questions and hurt and need pouring out of her mouth into mine. Her hands grip my lapel, dragging me closer, anchoring me.

The noise of the room disappears. Her lips are soft and fierce, like she’s trying to decide if she forgives me or just wants to ruin me a little first.

I’ll take either.

When we break, I don’t move. I keep my forehead against hers, our breaths mingling.

“That wasn’t for the cameras,” I say, voice thick.

“I know.” She pants.

“Kat…this thing—whatever this fake shit is...I’m done.”

I hold her gaze, voice low and steady.

She closes her eyes. When she opens them, there’s something in her gaze that makes it hard to breathe.

Hope. Fear. Maybe even the beginnings of belief.

“Don’t make me regret this,” she whispers.

I grip her waist, tight. “I won’t.”

Not this time.