He pulled his attention off the video-the video that might very well have been what had driven her to the club-and tried to collect his thoughts as the alcohol seeped into his bloodstream. Across the room, Giselle had broken free of handsy man and now flitted from one group to the next, all smiles and glamour.
This was her life, one filled with the rich and elite, cocktail parties and special events, champagne and hors d'oeuvres, and men fawning over her.
That was fine. Good. Great. After her childhood, Giselle deserved to be showered with as much attention as she could stand.
“Don't you think you deserve more?”
But, yeah, maybe Z was right. Maybe he did deserve more too. Like closure. Maybet he deserved the right to move on too.
Giselle broke out of her conversation with an older couple Troy didn't recognize and strolled through the crowd, turning a balustrade and disappearing down a short flight of stairs.
Purpose burned a hole straight through Troy's chest.
This.
This moment was the moment he'd been waiting for.
Giselle dried her hands, checked her makeup in the bathroom mirror, and added a little more concealer to her hickey, then feathered the edges. Going back to the club to see if she could catch him again was a really, really bad idea, wasn't it? Like the worst idea ever, she knew.
It was over. She wouldn't be going back. She wouldn't be seeing him again. She had to start looking forward, not backward.
With that new goal fixed in her mind, she straightened and turned for the door with her thoughts on the room upstairs. To the people who held her future in their hands. To the bathtub in her suite on the ninth floor-the lowest floor they’d had available-and the fragrant bubbles she'd fill it with when she returned.
She started up the short flight of stairs in front of her now with a grip on the iron handrail. The sight of men's black dress shoes and black slacks made her shift to the right.
She lifted her gaze and smiled politely at the man coming the opposite direction. “Excuse-”
The last word evaporated as she set eyes on Troy's face.
Denial blossomed even as her heart opened and swelled. Her feet stopped.
Not Troy. Can't be Troy.
Her eyes narrowed as the man stared back, still descending the staircase. Giselle had the strangest sensation of time slowing and warping and playing with her mind. She tried to see someone else in his face, someone she'd met upstairs, but all she saw was Troy-an older, wiser, sexier version of Troy with stubble heavy enough to be considered a beard.
Which only meant her mind was meshing memories of Troy with thoughts of the guy from…oh shit. The guy from the club.
“I'm in movies.”
His words echoed in her head as her brain made split-second connections. Dread and panic swam in the pit of her stomach.
He lowered to the same stair and paused, his gaze still holding hers. Giselle's mind flooded with panic. She fought to focus, to collect her scattered thoughts, but a small smile hinted on his lush lips.
Lips that moved with “Hi, Ellie.”
And her brain backpedaled, then stalled dead.
Ellie?
A spear of heat pierced the middle of her body. Her gaze jumped from his mouth to his eyes. And his identity hit her with absolute clarity: Troy.
Her heart did a funny twirl, jump, and flip, then took a high dive into the pit of her stomach. “What…? How did you…?” A flicker of doubt passed through her mind. She fell back a step, her hand grasping the railing. “Troy?”
She was so damn confused. Maybe she was going a little crazy. Because in that moment, every existing wrong collided and spit out an idea that absolutely did not register: The man at the club had been Troy.
“Oh my God.” Panic tinged the words, and the stairs spun in her vision. She pressed a hand to her forehead, and her back hit the wall of the staircase. “Oh shit. No. No, no, no.”
Her vision grayed around the edges. The strength in her legs gave out.