Chapter 52 A farewell dance
June
What the hell have I done?
"Oh, my June! I thought you said you wanted to wait till the end of the gala?" Lia beams, clutching my hands like she’s holding onto the best gossip of her life.
I blink at her, dazed. Yeah, I thought so too. I thought I’d wait. I thought I’d breathe. I thought— God, how did it happen?
Whose fault is it? We all know.
"Look how happy you made Chris," she adds, pointing in the direction he disappeared. I catch a glimpse of him weaving through the crowd, practically glowing, his shoulders lighter than I’ve ever seen them.
I wonder where he went. To brag? To celebrate?
"Where’s Tobias?" Lia mutters, scanning the ballroom with eagle eyes. "He missed everything. I have to tell him—" She slips her hands out of mine, but I grab her back like a drowning woman clinging to a rope.
"Can… can we not tell anybody yet? Please. I’ll ask Chris not to either." My voice is low, tight, pleading.
Lia snorts, flipping her hair. "Oh, come on, girl. I’m sure everyone saw him caress your face like you two were auditioning for a rom-com."
My stomach drops. Everyone? Did Mr. Grande see it too? Wait– wasn't that the general intention? To let him see you've moved on?
Lia taps my hand, grinning. "Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me."
And just like that, she’s off again, "Now, I’ve got to look for my brother."
Her hand slips from mine, and I’m left standing in the swell of the music and my conviction.
I turn to glare at the reason for my impulsive decision, but he’s not there. Lottie isn't, even the mystery woman that kissed his neck.
Ugh—June, stop it.
A waiter passes with a tray of wine and I snatch a glass, gulping it down like water.
Wait. Isn’t Lottie supposed to be his girlfriend? Does she know Mr. Grande lets other women drape themselves over him like that? Is he cheating on her?
My lips part, a sharp gasp slipping out. Of course. He’s a fucking playboy obviously. The same man who agreed to sleep with me without hesitation that night. What else did I expect?
And I fell—
Slap. My palm lands on my cheek soft, but firm.
June. Forget him. You’re with Chris now. Chris is the one you should be thinking about.
I raise my gaze, steadying my breath—only to see Mr. Grande walking toward my direction, alongside that guy from my first meeting as his secretary.
My little fists clench hard.
Fine. Let him come. I’ll look at him straight in those cold eyes and remind myself how great of a decision I made tonight...
First I've appear to happy and chatty. Why? I don't know?
My eyes catch Amaka and I rush to her side, clutching her arm. "How are you? Your dress is exquisite."
Amaka beams. "Thank you. You too, though—I almost didn’t recognize you."
Me neither, Amaka. I don’t even recognize myself tonight.
"So—" I begin, but she raises a finger and reaches for her phone.
"Please excuse me," she says politely, stepping away.
"Yeah…" My voice trails off, flimsy and hollow. I turn—and that’s when our eyes lock.
I see his something unreadable in gray eyes, and a frown. A deep crease between his brows.
Is he… angry? Upset? Hurt?
My resolve to keep glaring crumbles in an instant, my brow pinching instead. I drop my gaze and snatch another drink from a passing tray, swallowing it down too quickly.
I exhale hard, my throat burning like fire.
"What the hell did I just drink?" I mutter, glaring at the glass.
"Is that June?" a familiar voice calls from behind.
I turn quickly. "Mr. Henderson!" My tone shoots up a little too bright, but I can’t help it. Relief washes over me at the sight of him.
He grins, that warm, fatherly smile. "Well, look at you. I thought I was seeing things,"
"Mr. Henderson," I echo, stepping closer, excitement bubbling. Of all people to bump into here. He’s one of the few who’s been kind to me since I started at Apex. A middle-aged man with laugh lines deep enough to prove it, always outgoing, and quick to tease. He once said I reminded him of his daughter — maybe that’s why I trust him so easily. He was even the one who handed me the keys to the forbidden garden.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, brows furrowing. Henderson wasn’t supposed to be here. Mr. Grande’s policy was clear: low-level employees weren’t allowed at the gala, not unless they came as a guest of someone higher up. And I'm sure that's not how he got in.
"You didn’t hear?" Mr. Henderson whispers with mock drama, leaning in as if sharing a conspiracy.
I match his tone, my lips curling, "Hear what?"
He chuckles at himself, straightening his suit like it’s part of the performance. "I’m the new CEO."
My mouth falls open in exaggerated shock. I fold my arms, cocking a brow. "And I’m the president of the United States."
We both laugh — a soft, easy laugh that doesn’t belong to this crowded room.
"But seriously," I say once the laughter fades, curiosity tugging at me, "how did you get in? Did you come with one of the higher-level employees? The way I did?"
He shakes his head, his grin settling into something gentler. "Nope. You didn’t read about the policy change, huh? Seems our new CEO’s cut from a different cloth than his father. Gala’s open to everyone now. No more discrimination."
A quiet gasp slips out before I can stop it.
Open to everyone? My pulse stutters.
He changed it.
Was it because of what I said that day? Did he—
Hhh ~
My thoughts cut off.
That dark and unmistakable scent. It slides into my lungs before I even see him. My shoulders stiffen, heart thrumming faster. For a second, I keep my gaze down, terrified that if I look, I’ll break apart in front of Henderson.
Then I glance up. I see his broad back, fitted in that dark blue suit, walking in the same direction Chris went earlier.
My mouth goes dry.
"You all right?" Henderson’s voice breaks through, warm and worried, eyes narrowing on my flushed face.
I force a thin smile "I’m fine."
To prove it, I slip my arm into his, "Come on," I murmur, tugging gently, "let’s go somewhere else."
We drift into another section of the ballroom, and my eyes sweep the crowd—Lottie is at the corner chatting cheerfully with an unfamiliar man, the doctor from the day I fainted, and that lawyer who once tried to flirt with me, but I don't see the girl who kissed Mr. Grande on the neck.
I know she's probably with him right now.
I bite my lip hard. Shit. Why can’t I stop replaying that scene? It's like a damn thorn stuck under my skin.
I sigh. I’m tired of running into every last person connected to Mr. Grande. I need a damn break.
"Uhm—Mr. Henderson," I stop in my tracks, forcing a smile. "I need to go fix my makeup," I lie, slipping my arm free. Makeup, my ass. I just need to breathe, or maybe find Chris.
"Alright, dear," he says warmly, already distracted by the display of bottles on the far table. "I’ll go check out the expensive drinks they’re pouring." He winks.
"You should," I chuckle, but it’s thin. I leave him and head off, snagging another drink from a passing tray and swallowing it in one go. Maybe the burn will help.
Glass in hand, I turn—
—and freeze.
Mr. Grande, and he's walking in toward my direction.
Panic jolts through me. I whirl around, searching for cover. If there’s anywhere to duck, I’ll take it, but all I see is polished glass and open space, nowhere to hide, so I turn my back to him.
After a few minutes of hiding, my brows lift, my nose twitching for that familiar trace of his cologne, but I get nothing.
I slowly turn—only to lock eyes with Mr. Paul.
"Ah," he says, face brightening as he strides over. "Here you are." His hand closes around mine before I can react.
I don’t protest. I just follow, confusion prickling at me. Then the music cuts.
Oh no. No, no—he’s taking me straight to him.
"What are you doing, Paul?" Mr. Grande’s voice slices through the silence, deep and husky, his brows knitted tight.
Paul releases my hand with a grin. "She’ll be your partner for the first dance."
My head jerks, eyes wide. "Huh?" I must already be drunk—or dreaming—because there’s no way this is happening.
Paul pats my shoulder, still smiling warmly. "Think of it as your farewell dance, now that you’re stepping down as his secretary."
With a polite nod to Hermes, he slips away, leaving me stranded in front of him.
My eyes drop, suddenly unable to meet his. My earlier conviction—the one that I guess kept me standing tall tonight—vanishes. His presence expands, swallowing the air around me, and I stumble for composure.
"Do you know the waltz?" he asks, voice low, threaded with something unreadable.
I raise my gaze sharply, meeting his. His voice is calm, but his eyes… his eyes are burning. His jaw flexes like he’s holding back words he’ll never say.
Overwhelmed, I drop my gaze again, heat crawling up my neck.
"You can sit it out," he adds, quieter this time, softer yet edged, "if you don’t want to dance."
I bite my lip, staring at my heels as though they might anchor me. Why am I the one cowering? Why am I trembling as though guilty? He is the one in the wrong.
"I’ll dance," I blurt, lifting my head before I lose my nerve.
His lips part, the faintest pause, then he closes them. "Alright then." He extends his hand — long fingers, veins etched like pearls.
I lay my hand on his steadily, but inside, I’m breaking. He leads me forward, in confidence stride, his presence filling every inch of air around me. Guests are already pairing off, the polished floor a stage, and suddenly I feel small.
As our fingers intertwine, I suddenly forget to breathe. And then he draws me in, his hand presses against the small of my back firmly and possessively.
"Oh—" A soft gasp escapes before I can strangle it, and I drop my gaze instantly, shame prickling my skin.
"You have to look at me." His voice brushes my ear like heat.
My breath stutters.
"Of… course," I whisper, my voice betraying me. Slowly, as if forced, my eyes climb back to his.
My free hand hovers awkwardly, searching high for his shoulder, until he seizes it, shifting it lower, guiding me to his upper arm.
"Here’s more comfortable," he murmurs.
The music starts again, but all I can hear is the thunder of my own heartbeat.