Page 127 of These White Lies

Overwhelming and fake.

I look around the room at the perfectly dressed people, dripping in jewels. The whole thing is a façade. How many here know where the money for this charity is really going? How evil the woman behind it is?

The air hums with the swell of strings from a quartet and the murmur of conversations, punctuated with bursts of bright laughter across the parquet floor.

Ray clearly does not feel the same as I do. He belongs here. He steps forward into the crowd with easy confidence, his arm firm beneath my hand, and I fight not to tighten my grip.

My chest feels too tight, the fabric of this dress cutting into my ribs with every inhale. Breathe. Smile. Keep moving.

“Aren’t they coming in?” I ask when his two bodyguards take up position by the doors.

Ray gives me an amused smile. “It’s a bad look if I can’t defend myself with a bunch of soft, rich people.”

I push down my feeling of unease as the space between us and the guards grows. “You look beautiful.” His voice is smooth, pitched low enough for only me.

I tilt my head, catching his grin. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

Ray wears his clearly custom tuxedo as if he were born in it, which is a little surprising considering his attire at our last meeting. His broad shoulders and imposing figure make it plain to any onlooker that he hasn’t lost his edge. He’s almost as handsome as Brady.

Almost.

The glances aren’t subtle. Recognition flashes across the faces around us, and heads turn. Whispers shift like ripples across the room. I can’t tell if they’re sizing me up or marveling at him—their hometown champion, the legendary boxer, parading me on his arm. My skin prickles under the scrutiny, but I lock my spine straight.

This isn’t the first intimidating room I’ve walked into. I can do this.

“Here we go,” I hear Finn’s voice in my ear. “Don’t forget to turn fully when you look around the room and move slowly so that the image doesn’t blur.” The clip-on earrings are heavy, tugging at my lobes with the weight of the hidden microphone and pinhole camera.

They’re already live, and sending everything to Finn and Sera, who are parked outside in a surveillance van.

Ray smiles down at me. “Brady’s a lucky man.”

I don’t take the bait, keeping my gaze steady on the crowd ahead. “Your son is the most remarkable person I’ve ever met.”

He lets out a soft chuckle. “You’re good at this.”

“I’m not trying to be. It’s the truth.”

We drift farther into the room. Champagne glasses catch the chandeliers’ light, held by staff gliding between guests with trays balanced high. The string quartet plays on a small riser near the front.

At first, people keep their distance, not wanting to be the first to approach the man of the hour, but then the mood shifts. A man, face flushed with excitement and alcohol, pushes forward for a handshake. That seems to signal the other guests, and they surround us.

Another man claps Ray’s back like they’re lifelong friends. Stories follow—long, drawn-out recollections of fights won years ago, punches thrown, blood spilled. Ray basks in it, and I swear his chest expands more with each retelling of his wins.

I hear Brady in my head, warning me about his father’s addiction to attention. He wasn’t exaggerating.

To his credit, Ray’s grip on me never falters, even when others angle to steal my place at his side. When I’m jostled harder than before, the group is met with the same look his opponents must’ve seen seconds before a knockout.His arm snakes around my waist, holding me tight.

“Apologize to the lady,” he growls.

The man who bumped me blanches, and the crowd instinctively takes a step back, giving us space. On any other occasion, I’d laugh at the spectacle, but not tonight. However, I do feel steadier with him now than I did walking in.

I hold my place at Ray’s side, nodding in the right places while my eyes skim the room. Rhodes moves past in a waiter’s jacket. His eyes meet mine for half a second before his gaze slides past as if I don’t exist.

Right. Don’t look for them. Don’t give anything away. Act normal.

Normal. Yeah, right.

Still no sign of Brady. Or Vincent.