TWISTED PROMISES (Twisted Path Book 2

Chapter 10

Shane

The ballroom is glowing. Golden light spills from the chandeliers like champagne icicles, catching on crystal glasses, sequined gowns, and towering arrangements of white roses and winter holly in polished silver urns. Waiters drift through the crowd, silver trays in hand, offering wine and amuse-bouches that no one eats, though they all pretend to enjoy. The air smells like money—aged scotch, fresh-cut florals with hints of pine, and ego dressed in designer scents.

Beside me, Amanda glides along in practiced elegance, her hand resting lightly on my arm. She smiles the way she always does when there's an audience—serene, gracious, as though this is exactly the life she was made for. Worst of all, she smiles like all of this is real.

I, on the other hand, move through it like a ghost.

Shaking hands. Returning insincere smiles and polite nods of recognition like it's my job. And in a way, it is. By my parents' design, it's what I'm expected to do.

Every few steps, Amanda's fingers tighten on my sleeve, a silent cue to slow down, to lean closer, to let her brush her cheek against my shoulder. To pretend. To perform. And each time, I force myself not to recoil, especially with the cameras around the room snapping away.

All these people—most of whom I see only once or twice a year—think they know me. As heir to the Montgomery dynasty, what they see when they look at me is money. Opportunity. A connection they can leverage in the future, when my father finally hands over the reins of his empire.

But what they don't see... is me.

Not the boy who hid in the stables with the horses to avoid piano lessons. Not the teenager who used to sneak away from events like this just to sit on the roof, watch the stars, and breathe. And definitely not the man who'd give all of this up for a chance at a life with the girl of my dreams.

Amanda's perfume—some over-the-top floral concoction, no doubt designed to evoke my bitterness—drifts into my nose, snapping me from my thoughts. It clings to my suit like a red flag I can't wash off. And not for the first time, I consider leaving.

I sigh at the thought, inadvertently dropping my mask for the briefest second as I realize leaving would only make everything worse. I need to be careful. It's one thing for my parents, Charles, and Amanda to know I'm unhappy in this arrangement, but should the rest of the world find out, it would mean a definite end for Becca and me. My parents and Charles would make sure of that.

So I breathe in, then breathe out, forcing myself to lift Amanda's hand from my arm and press it to my lips in a show of affection that makes me feel sick. She beams up at me, and I pretend I don't see the flicker of triumph in her eyes.

I look around, disgusted by how curated it all is. A fairy tale staged perfectly for profit. For power and gain. Even the giant tree in the corner, strung with white lights and crowned with a glass star, feels more like a set piece than a holiday decoration. And the music drifting through the room—soft, sweeping strains of O Holy Night from the string quartet near the grand staircase—feels forced. Like background noise that doesn't quite belong.

At the front of the room, my father steps to the podium. Like magic, the crowd sinks into a pregnant silence. As if choreographed, guests find their seats without him having to say a word.

The immediate compliance, as everyone stares up at my father in that feigned reverence only the rich can get away with, makes him smile. First at the crowd, then at me.

When all eyes automatically follow his, Amanda tilts her head to look at me, her expression soft and starry-eyed for the benefit of everyone watching. I can feel her eyes scanning my profile, waiting for me to smile back. To play the part. I don't.