Page 120 of These White Lies

33

BRADY

Struggling to get my emotions under control, I know I’m holding Elizabeth’s hand too tight in the elevator, but she doesn’t complain.

She also doesn’t offer any platitudes or ask questions, which I appreciate more than she can imagine. I don’t think I could take it. I haven’t slept in days, and the mind-fuck it always is seeing my father is hitting harder than normal.

My father has never apologized foranything. Ever. Not when he missed every single birthday, most times forgetting to even send a present, not for missing every one of my high school football games, all of my graduations, or even when I won my amateur title bouts.

Not even when he shattered Sera’s already broken heart after her attack. I shove aside the image of my father’s awkward grin when he stood next to my sister’s bed, staring in ill-concealed horror at her heavily bandaged face and arm.

No. I can’t go there without turning around and beating the shit out of him. The only thing that stopped me that day was the fact that it would have just upset Sera more.

But today he’d apologized.

And he looked like he actually meant it.

I shake my head. Getting us into that party is the least he can do.

This fucking party. Ice has formed a permanent boulder in my gut.

I try to assure myself that Elizabeth will be safe.

It’s a public setting. High-profile. There will be too many eyes for Anna to try anything reckless.

That’s what I repeat in my head, over and over, like sheer logic can muscle down the tension suffocating me.

It doesn’t work.

The thought of Elizabeth walking into that room—even surrounded by people, even with Rhodes, Vincent, and myself in the room with her, disguised as caterers—has every instinct in me on high alert. My jaw’s permanently tight, and I can feel a muscle ticking in my temple with my pulse.

My body knows the truth even if my brain keeps trying to argue otherwise.

If I had my way, Elizabeth would never be afraid another day in her life. I’d wrap her up, keep her out of reach, and burn down anyone who so much as looked at her sideways. But that’s not the way this works, and she’s already carrying enough nerves about what she’s going to do.

So, I bury it. Force my expression to stay neutral, keep my tone steady. If she glances at me—and she will—I need her to see confidence in the plan, not the storm threatening to break loose.

The last thing I’ll ever do is make her more afraid than she has to be.

I do my best to regulate my breathing as I open the door for Elizabeth, scanning the parking lot as I round the hood.

Elizabeth shifts in her seat, turning toward me.

“I’ll need a dress.” Her tone is deliberately casual.

“Yeah?”

“And before you suggest it, no, I’m not calling a stylist to send something over. If anyone’s monitoring my accounts, that kind of delivery will set off alarms.”

I roll my shoulders. “Look at you, thinking like Finn.” I give her a lopsided smile, not quite capable of pulling a real one off.

“So,” she continues, her hand brushing over her thigh in a quick, restless motion, “I’ll call Dahlia. She hastons of clothes, and we’re close to the same size. She’ll have something I can use.”

“Right.” I know I’m being gruff, and she probably has questions about what just happened with Ray, but instead of pushing, she puts her hand on the console, palm up.

I lay my hand on top and interlace our fingers. Elizabeth continues to chatter about what color might be best, and if she’ll need shoes. It’s easy to see what she’s doing. She’s giving me the space I need to get my head back on straight after Ray.

Fuck, I love her for it.