Chapter 89
Edward POV
The engagement party was held at the Plaza's Grand Ballroom, transformed into something out of a fairy tale. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over tables draped in ivory silk, white roses arranged in towering centerpieces that seemed designed specifically to block conversation across the tables. The air was thick with expensive perfume and even more expensive ambition, the gentle music barely masking the undercurrent of gossip and speculation.
I arrived with Catherine, her burgundy gown drawing approving glances as we entered. She navigated the social currents with practiced ease—a light touch on an elderly donor's arm, a perfectly timed laugh at a banking executive's joke, a subtle compliment to a rival's wife. I played my part, shaking hands and making small talk I couldn't care less about, all while scanning the room with a vigilance I refused to acknowledge even to myself.
My collar felt too tight, my cufflinks suddenly heavy. I found myself checking my phone out of a compulsive habit, my thumb hovering over her name before I'd snatch it back, disgusted with my own weakness. The screen remained empty, a reflection of my own enforced silence.
Vera spotted me near the champagne fountain and hurried over, her face lighting up with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Edward! I'm so glad you came." She reached for my hand as I offered the Tiffany box I'd brought. "Congratulations," I said simply, noting how her fingers lingered against mine longer than necessary, cold and seeking against my palm.
The diamonds at her neck—the blue diamond pendant I'd bought her years ago—caught the light as she moved, a reminder of a different time, a different plan for both our lives.
Matthew appeared at her side, wrapping a protective arm around her waist. A gesture of possession, of claiming. I recognized it because I'd done the same with Anna more times than I cared to admit.
"Thanks for coming, man. Means a lot," Matthew said, his voice carrying that East Coast prep school cadence that had always grated on my nerves.
Catherine rejoined us, making polite conversation with the practiced ease of someone who had studied the art of small talk as diligently as a foreign language. "Where's Daniel tonight? I was hoping to meet him."
Matthew's expression shifted slightly, a tightening around the eyes. "He's in Boston. Just signed some major deal—bought the rights to adapt some graphic novel series. He's knee-deep in pre-production meetings with potential directors."
Graphic novel series.
The words hit me like ice water, cold realization spreading through my chest. My mind immediately went to Anna's work, to that serialized story she'd been so passionate about. The one that had gotten her in legal trouble after our divorce. The one with the dark-haired protagonist who bore a suspicious resemblance to me. The timing was too fucking convenient to be coincidence.
"Boston?" I heard myself ask, my voice carefully controlled while my fingers tightened around the stem of my champagne flute.
"Yeah, been there all week apparently. Typical Daniel—when he gets his teeth into a project, nothing else exists."
I nodded, but my thoughts were racing, a jumble of connections forming and reforming. Anna. Daniel Quinn. Boston. Had she been with him this whole time? Was that why she'd been so quick to end things between us? The possibility gnawed at me, sharp and unwelcome like a splinter I couldn't extract. Was she with Matthew's brother now? Had she been planning this even while in my bed?
Something must have shown on my face because Catherine touched my arm lightly, a question in her eyes. I forced a smile that felt like a grimace and excused myself to get another drink I didn't want.
As the evening wound down, I found myself increasingly distracted, barely listening to Catherine's commentary about the other guests. My responses became monosyllabic, my attention elsewhere. When fragments of conversation drifted over—mentions of "the other Parker girl" and speculation about why Anna hadn't attended—my jaw tightened involuntarily, the muscle there jumping with tension.
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In the car afterward, the leather seats creaked softly as I turned to Catherine. The city lights played across her features, illuminating then shadowing her face in rhythmic patterns as we drove. "I need to handle something urgent," I said, not even bothering to make the lie convincing. "Jenkins will take you home."
She studied my face with those intelligent eyes that missed nothing. "Everything alright?"
"Just business," I lied smoothly, though the slight narrowing of her eyes told me she wasn't fooled. "Rain check on that nightcap?"
She smiled, but I caught the flash of disappointment, quickly masked. "Of course."
After Jenkins dropped her off at her Upper East Side apartment, I had him pull over on Fifth Avenue. "I'll catch a cab from here," I told him, stepping out into the cool night air that did nothing to clear the fog of my thoughts.
Minutes later, I was in the back of a yellow taxi heading toward Bellevue Heights, the driver mercifully silent as I stared out at the city. The familiar skyline seemed alien somehow, like I was seeing it from a different angle, a different perspective.
"James," I said when my assistant answered on the second ring. "I need you to have our tech guy track a phone. Anna's number." My voice sounded strange to my own ears, tight and controlled yet somehow desperate. "I need her location, and I need it five minutes ago."
"Sir, are you sure it's—" His hesitation was obvious, concern mixing with professional distance.
"Just do it." I hung up, staring out at the city lights blurring past, anger and something that felt dangerously close to fear churning in my gut. Why was I doing this? I'd been the one to say I never wanted to see her again. I'd been the one to let her walk away. And now here I was, acting like a jealous teenager, tracking her phone like some kind of stalker.
My reflection in the cab window looked back at me, features distorted by the glass and the passing lights. I barely recognized myself.
My phone rang exactly four minutes later, vibrating against my palm with a kind of accusatory persistence.
"She's in Boston," James reported without preamble, his voice carefully neutral. "The Fairmont Copley Plaza. Been there for two days."
The Fairmont. The hotel where film industry types always stayed when scouting East Coast locations. The hotel where Summit Productions—Daniel Quinn's company—always put up their creative teams. Of fucking course.
My chest tightened, a vice grip around my lungs. Images flashed through my mind—Anna and Daniel together, her laugh, his hand on the small of her back, the two of them discussing her work, her passion... I forced the thoughts away, disgusted by my own imagination.
"Book me on the next flight out," I said, the decision made before I even realized I'd made it. "Tonight."
"Understood, sir. I'll have a car waiting at Logan."
I ended the call and leaned back against the cracked leather seat, running a hand through my hair, the gel giving way beneath my fingers. The cab smelled of artificial pine and cigarettes poorly masked by air freshener, a far cry from the sandalwood and leather of my usual surroundings. It felt appropriate somehow, this descent from my carefully controlled world.
Why the hell am I still caring about this? I told her I never wanted to see her again. The thought circled in my head, mocking me with its simple truth.
But even as I tried to convince myself this was just about closure, just about getting answers, just about making sure she wasn't selling her work too cheap to Daniel Quinn, I knew better. The hollow feeling in my chest when I saw Anna's empty room, the way I still reached for her in the half-conscious moments before waking, the fact that I was now sitting in a goddamn yellow cab racing to catch a plane to Boston because she might be there with another man—it all pointed to one pathetic truth.
Edward, you're really fucking pathetic.
I leaned forward, tapping on the partition. "JFK. Terminal 8," I told the driver, then sat back, resigned to my own weakness. Tomorrow I'd see Anna again, whether she wanted to see me or not. And I still had no idea what I'd say when I did.