Chapter 167
“Vance?” The name came out as a low growl, barely audible over the thump of the music. “What are you doing here?”
Vance looked confused, holding up the ticket for Seat 2. “Mrs. Collins sent me, sir. She said it was a surprise for you. She left the ticket at Will Call.”
Gaston stared at him. His brain short-circuited.
She sent her assistant.
“Where is Jocelyn?” Gaston demanded, rising to his full height.
“She said she was ordering Thai food,” Vance replied, his professional composure beginning to fray at the edges. “She wanted you to enjoy the game with a friend.”
The blood drained from Gaston’s face — then rushed back in a tidal wave of heat.
𝗝𝘰і𝗻 t𝗵e 𝗰𝘰𝗺𝗆𝗎𝗻𝗂𝗍𝘆 at gаlno𝘃𝗲ls.с𝘰𝘮
She set us up.
She had not bought the tickets for a date with him. She had bought them because she believed he wanted to be here with Vance. She genuinely, wholeheartedly believed he was involved with his own assistant.
His hands curled into fists at his sides. The humiliation was physical — a burning in his gut. He had cancelled a million-dollar dinner. He had sent flowers. He had spent two days believing she was finally beginning to see him. And she had spent those same two days arranging a courtside evening for him and his presumed lover, playing the gracious, understanding wife.
She saw him as a closeted charity case in need of a beard to manage his social calendar.
The arena lights dimmed.
The Jumbotron overhead blazed to life with a giant pink heart.
KISS CAM.
The crowd erupted. The camera swept across the celebrity section — a famous rapper with his model girlfriend, a retired athlete with his wife — then swiveled toward Row AA.
Gaston glanced up at the massive screen.
Framed inside the heart were two people.
Gaston Collins. And Vance.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” the row behind them chanted. The crowd took up the call and roared.
Vance went rigid, the water bottle slipping in his grip. “Oh god.”
Gaston stared at his own face on the screen — a mask of pure, undisguised fury, the face of a man one provocation away from genuine violence.
“Sir?” Vance squeaked.
Gaston did not speak. He could not. If he opened his mouth, he would roar.
He kicked Seat 2. Hard.
Then he turned and stormed out of the row, shouldering past a cameraman angling for a better shot.
“Boo!” the crowd jeered at his retreating back.
Gaston burst through the exit doors into the cool concrete hallway and kept moving — past security, past the concession stands, past the startled glances of staff. He drove through the heavy glass doors onto 7th Avenue.
It was raining. A cold, miserable New York downpour that soaked through his blazer within seconds.
His driver pulled the car up to the curb.
Gaston ignored him.
“Sir!” the driver called.
.