Read 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.

Not that it matters. My father, and therefore the rest of the room, have already moved on.

“Welcome, friends,” he begins, voice smooth and commanding. “As always, we are honored to host you this Christmas Eve. A tradition rooted in legacy, unity, and the bonds that make our community and business partnerships strong…”

It goes on like that. Polished. Predictable. For minutes… maybe hours. I’ve lost count now that I’ve tuned him out.

Like she’s noticed, Amanda’s thumb brushes lightly over my knuckles, another subtle prompt to play my part and look engaged rather than disconnected. Instead, I let my eyes wander across the crowd.

I recognize nearly everyone. Hell, I’ve been shaking hands with most of them since I was a toddler. But just like they don’t know who I am, I don’t know a thing about them either. Well… outside of who they know, their family name, their status in our circles, business affiliations—the things my father goes out of his way to recite in the name of preparing me for this life. Because in our world, identity isn’t who you are. It’s who you appear to be. Who you know. What power you have and how you wield it.

It’s a kingdom built on masks. On pretense. On mirages, manipulations, and sleight-of-hand maneuvers.

Unexpectedly, Amanda leans her shoulder against my arm, breathing out a soft, practiced laugh when the woman seated across the aisle gestures toward us and mouths something about young love. The sound makes my skin crawl.

When the applause breaks through my thoughts, I feel it before I realize what’s coming next—my mother’s gaze says it all.

Sharp. Expectant. A steady smile, but beneath it, there’s a hint of warning.

When our eyes meet, she gives the faintest nod.

This is it.

I guess that’s my cue.

Beside me, Amanda shifts, releasing my hand so I can stand and step forward alone. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her smoothing her dress as her expression shifts to something appropriately soft and anticipatory, like she’s already posing for the photos that will end up on every society page by morning.

My stomach rolls violently as I fight with everything I have not to let it show. A little nervousness… that’s okay. It fits the narrative, given what I’m about to do, and the press will eat it up and spin it in a positive light. But hesitation… looking uncertain. Scared. Like I don’t want to do this… I can’t let anyone see that.

So I stand with the arrogant confidence of a Montgomery. Even as my hands tremble slightly. Even as I inadvertently release a shuddering breath as I walk to the front of the room, where my father stands expectantly.

Regardless of what my parents think, I’m not doing this for them.

I’m doing this for her.

For the girl I love. The girl who told me not to let them break me. The girl who doesn’t need candlelight, diamonds, or staged romance in the spotlight.

All she needs is me. Honest. Whole. Free.

My Becca.

She’s the reason I’m doing this.

Every step toward the front of the room is a rehearsal in control. My face remains blank. My breath steady and sure. My spine straight, yet relaxed. But beneath this polished exterior, I’m burning.

With grief. With fury. With the sick ache of pretending. Of acting like any of this is okay.

Passing the towering Christmas tree, glittering with white lights and delicate glass ornaments, I step up beside my father, who reaches out to shake my hand.

For the first time in a long time, he meets my gaze with a look of wistful pride. It’s a look I can’t tell whether it’s real or performative, but which, to my dismay, appeases the little boy inside me who’s always felt he didn’t measure up to his father’s expectations.

That this man still evokes that stupid longing inside me feels wrong… degrading. But with the expectant eyes of the crowd bearing down on me, I don’t have time to dwell on it.

Because in this moment, I don’t see myself as a man about to propose, or a man giving in to his family’s demands.

I see myself as a soldier.

One step from battle.

One lie from war.

And as I reach for the velvet box tucked inside my suit, I don’t think of tradition, or legacy, or my mother’s perfect narrative.

I think of Becca and the promise I made her.

I’m coming back to you, pretty girl. Now and always.

Because this isn’t a proposal.

This is the first fired shot in our war.

And one thing I’m certain of… I don’t intend to lose.

❤️ Can’t wait for more? I’ve got you… 👇🏼

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