Some might think it's silly, but it's been my dream to be invited to the Sheldonhurst Foundation Holiday Gala for years. Truthfully, long ago, I'd wanted to be one of the artists showcased at the gala. But, given the fact that it's a spotlight dedicated to the underprivileged, and I grew up on the Upper East Side, I didn't exactly fit their criteria for consideration. I understood the reasoning, but it still stung at the time.

The Ravere Group is a prestigious program and some of today's most influential artists, across a variety of mediums, have passed through its doors – another reason I always hoped to showcase at the Holiday Gala.

While some of my work is sold in fine galleries around the city, I haven't quite made the name for myself I dreamed I would when I was younger. Which is fine, I guess.

As I walk past all the showcase displays, I feel a small twinge of jealousy float through me. But, it’s a minor, fleeting emotion. More than anything, I simply feel awe. There are so many talented kids in the program, and the world through their eyes brings me joy. Some of my students, I think, are good enough to be accepted into the Ravere Group, and I'm going to make a point of pushing them toward it.

I weave my way through the crowd, moving from one showcase to the next, admiring the work I'm seeing – some of the pieces so beautiful, they bring tears to my eyes. I'm alone, which is probably for the best – I can wipe away my tears discretely. Jade was supposed to come with me, but her son got sick, so she had to cancel at the last minute.

I wasn't going to let that stop me though. There was no way in hell I was going to cancel. I've been wanting to see the Sheldonhurst Showcase for years, and I wasn't going to let flying solo for one night deter me from that.

I still can't believe that it was my brother, of all people, who not only remembered that art is my passion, but scored me tickets to the premier event in the city. Honestly, it's a little mind-blowing, and makes me think, for the first time ever, that he's trying. He's really trying.

I take a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and turn to the stage as I see a woman with iron-gray hair and wearing a beautiful evening gown step up to the microphone. The string quartet finishes their song with a flourish and leave the stage to a warm round of applause.

“Good evening,” the gray-haired woman says. “My name is Shannon Watts. On behalf of the Sheldonhurst Foundation, I’d like to welcome you to our annual holiday gala, and thank you for your attendance. And also, for your generous contributions. As you know, our Foundation is involved in...”

With everybody distracted, and most of the displays clear of people, I tune her out a bit and head for the photography showcase – one of the only displays I hadn't yet seen. The images are stunning, and I'm absolutely blown away by the talent I see before me. It's simply amazing. I move among the showcases, each one more stunning, more striking than the last.

“...without further ado, I'd like to introduce you to this year's recipient of the Sheldonhurst Seal,” I hear her say, “he's a pillar of the community, and has been one of the Ravere Group's most generous benefactors for years now. Please join me in giving a warm welcome, and a word of thanks to Mr. Carter Bishop.”

I freeze the moment I hear his name broadcasted over the loudspeakers, and echo around the gallery. A moment later, applause erupts around the room. I had to have heard her wrong. Right? What does Carter know about art? He never took it seriously. Never appreciated it like I do. Why in the world would he be associated with one of the top art programs in the country? It had to be a mistake. Somebody else with the coincidence of having the same name.

I turn slowly, my eyes wide, my throat dry, and my heart pounding violently in my chest. When I see him, my stomach lurches, and it's all I can do to keep from throwing up. Or fainting. I'm not sure which one I'm closer to. But, it's him. It's definitely him.

I watch, wide-eyed, as he walks across the stage, the spotlight making him stand out – not that he needs it. He looks almost exactly the same as he did the last time I saw him. Not that I'm surprised, given that I saw his photograph recently. But seeing him live and in the flesh is a lot different than seeing him in some printed, mass-produced photo.

Carter is still tall, trim, and handsome as sin. I’m shaking so hard as I watch him embrace the woman on stage and accept the award she hands him, I almost drop my champagne flute. He looks at the small crystal trinket, his face a mask of humility and appreciation.

He turns and sets it on the podium, leaning forward toward the microphone.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice as rich and smooth as ever. “Thank you, Shannon. Thank you to everybody who does such an incredible job with the Sheldonhurst Foundation, and the Ravere Group, in particular.”

There is another loud round of applause that goes on for a while as I stand there, completely riveted to my spot. It feels like I'm seeing a ghost, newly risen from the grave. My palms are as sweaty as my throat is parched. I swallow down the entire flute of champagne, drawing a curious look from the woman standing next to me. If she only knew, she'd understand.

“I'm truly and thoroughly humbled, and honored, to be receiving this award,” Carter says. “But truthfully, there's somebody who deserves it more than I do. I probably would have never taken an interest in art if it weren’t for them. Or the world around me, if I'm being completely honest. I mean, I grew up a poor kid in Hell's Kitchen, what did I know about art, right?

Well, this person had a deep, lasting impact on my life, and she inspired me to look at art – and the world – differently. If not for her, I never would have found my way to the Sheldonhurst Foundation, or to the Ravere Group. If I'm being completely honest, she should be the one up here accepting this award. Not me.”

Carter pauses, and the crowd applauds his humility and grace. He looks a little abashed for a moment and looks down at the award. As the applause goes on, he looks up, scanning the crowd. I'm sure he's looking for whatever blonde supermodel came on his arm. Needles of pain pierce my heart as I look at him and remember the devastation, he wrought in my life all those years ago.

I feel the tears welling in my eyes as I look at him. I want to turn around and flee, but I can't seem to make my body move. It's like my muscles have locked into place and won’t obey my commands. All I can seem to do is stand here, staring up at the man who shattered my heart into a million pieces.

As the applause fades, he looks down at the award again, his face a mask of concentration – but mixed with something else. I can tell he's trying to formulate his next words – though, I'm surprised he doesn't have a statement prepared. On his face is a mix of longing, and nostalgia, and in that moment, I would have given almost anything to know what was going through his head.

“It's funny, I had this whole speech prepared to bore you all with tonight,” he continues, and the crowd chuckles politely, “but, I don't think I'm going to give it. I'm sure, much to your delight, I'm going to keep this very short.”

There is laughter and a smattering of applause around the room. Carter squints through the lights as he looks over the crowd – still searching for somebody – a smile on his face that could light up the entire gallery on its own. The same smile that used to melt my heart, and has haunted my dreams, and sent intense, stabbing pains through my heart, for the last decade.

“Anyway,” he says, “if not for this person, I wouldn’t be standing here before such an esteemed collection of people. Honestly, I don't know where I'd be without her. So, I think she deserves to be recognized.”

Wonderful. That's exactly what I want to see right now – the man who broke my heart gush about how transformative the love of his life has been for him. Yeah, this is doing wonders for my self-esteem. I look around, hoping to see another waiter with a tray of champagne. Alcohol is the only thing that's going to get me through the night without some sort of emotional meltdown.

“I can't see her at the moment, but I know she's out there somewhere. I saw her just before coming up on stage,” he says. “Darby White? Are you out there?”

I feel like he just dumped a bucket of water, straight out of the Arctic Ocean, over my head. My body hums with an intense, nervous energy, and I feel my body tremble.

I look up at the stage and see Carter scanning the faces of the people in the gallery, searching for me among the crowd. My stomach drops into my shoes and my heart climbs into my throat.

I shake my head. Surely, I misunderstood him. More than likely a textbook case of projection, and desire. I look around the room, looking for the woman moving toward the stage. I don't see anybody, though. Everybody is like me, turning this way and that, looking all around the room.

“Darby?” Carter calls. “Are you out there?”

There it is again. My name falling from his lips. I know I didn't mishear him this time. What in the hell is going on? How did he know I was here? I had no idea he would be here.

I watch as Carter takes the microphone out of the holder on the podium and steps to the front of the stage. He puts his hand over his eyes, shielding them from the lights. There's a curious, but excited murmur running through the crowd as he searches for his mystery woman – for me, apparently.

Carter's eyes finally land on me, and I feel a jolt of electricity shoot through my body, searing every inch of my flesh. My every nerve. I stand there absolutely petrified, and feel an overwhelming urge to turn and flee.

“There she is,” Carter says, a heart-melting smile on his face.

He jumps down off the stage, and the crowd parts like he's Moses wading through the Red Sea. People around me start to turn and look. Eyes fall on me, and all of the sudden, I feel incredibly claustrophobic. The weight of all those eyes presses down on me and I feel trapped.

Like I'm suddenly suffocating.

In front of me, I can see the spotlight moving and the crowd continuing to part as Carter makes his way toward me. I feel like I actually might be sick, and not wanting to make a spectacle of myself – I quickly turn, and start to head for the doors.

I don't make it very far before a hand falls on my shoulder. His hand on my bare skin sends tendrils of fire coursing through my veins, that fills me with exquisite pain, but also intense pleasure at the same time.

Carter turns me around so I'm facing him. I feel my breath catch in my throat, as I look into those once familiar blue-gray eyes – eyes that once upon a time, I would lose myself in for hours at a time.

As I look upon that oh-so-familiar face, I'm overwhelmed by a maelstrom of thought and emotion. So much feeling passes through my body in the blink of an eye that it threatens to consume me. Honestly, all I want to do is go somewhere dark, hide away from the world, and cry until there are no tears left in my body.

“This, folks,” Carter says into the microphone, his eyes never leaving mine, “is this reason I stand before you this evening. Ladies and gentlemen, this is Darby White. She's a talented artist in her own right, but this is the woman who opened my mind and my heart and showed me the world through her eyes. If not for her, I never would have taken an interest in art, and my path never would have led me to the Ravere Group.”

Applause erupts all around us and Carter looks at me, his amazing smile growing even wider. When I look into his eyes, it feels exactly the same as when he used to look at me, ten years ago. Back when I thought he loved me. Before he'd ghosted me and shredded my heart into a million tiny, little pieces – and then set those pieces on fire.

Holding the mic to the side, he cocks his head at me, a mischievous smile on his face.

“Hi Darby,” he says. “Good to see you again.”

His voice saying my name triggers another intense burst of emotion within me, and at this point, I’m doing everything I can to keep from crying, and making even more of a spectacle of myself than I already have. Not that it really matters at this point.

“You son of a bitch,” I finally manage to hiss.

“Yeah,” he says. “I think we probably need to talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Maybe not,” he replies. “But I have some things you need to hear.”

“Tough.”

Finally managing to break my paralysis, I turn to go, but he puts his hand on my shoulder and turns me around again. My face is hot with anger and my eyes are narrowed. He wisely steps back and puts his hands up, a grin creasing his face. He raises the microphone to his lips, and looks around at the crowd, as if suddenly remembering other people are watching us. The throng of onlookers continue to stare wide-eyed back at us, the gallery filled with an awkward silence. Nobody quite knows how to react, and I'm suddenly quite sure they've never seen anybody involved in something this scandalous within the refined halls of the Sheldonhurst Foundation.

Oops.

“You'll have to forgive us, folks,” Carter says. “Darby's never liked being put on the spot like this.”

“I'm warning you, Carter,” I say, my voice pitched low, so only he can hear me.

“Suffice it to say,” he continues, totally ignoring my warning, his smile never faltering as he looks around at the crowd, “it was this woman here, an amazing artist in her own right – really, you folks should do yourselves a favor and take a look at her work, it'll blow your minds – who changed my perception about the world. Without her, there would be no Carter Bishop. So, thank you, Darby. This award is truly your honor, not mine.”

He tucks the microphone under his arm and starts to applaud. Soon enough, the rest of the gallery joins him – tepid and strained at first – but then, perhaps seeing the genuine sincerity and warmth on Carter's face, it became a full-throated roar. My cheeks burn with heat. I've never been one for the spotlight.

“Enjoy the rest of the gala, folks,” Carter says into the microphone. “And don't forget to participate in the silent auction. The money raised goes to a fantastic cause. Make sure you bid on the pieces, they're incredible.”

He hands the microphone off to somebody and steps closer to me as the string quartet returns to the stage and starts to play another holiday standard. My heart is beating wildly, and I still feel like I'm on the verge of passing out, as he steps close to me, his eyes glued to mine. There's an intensity in his gaze that makes me tremble.

“Can we go somewhere and talk for a minute?” he asks.

“Like I said, I have nothing to say to you,” I manage to stammer.

“And like I said, I have something you need to hear.”

I'm paralyzed with fear. Part of me wants to go with him, and believe whatever it is he is going to tell me, no matter how outlandish it is. If he tells me he was kidnapped by aliens ten years ago, and taken to their home world, there’s a small part of me willing to believe him. That wants to tell him it's okay, and that I'm just happy they returned him unharmed, and hopefully, unprobed.

That part of my brain – and my heart – wants to throw myself into his arms and pretend the past ten years never happened, and that we can return to those love-sick people we were a decade ago.

Yeah, I’ve really moved on, huh?

“Please,” he says. “Just hear me out. If, after that, you want nothing more to do with me, then fine. I'll accept it. But, please, just hear me out, Darby. That's all I'm asking you for. Call it a Christmas gift.”

“Like I owe you anything,” I snap.

“No, you don't,” he says, that little smirk returning to his face. “I'm just hoping that by some miracle, I can appeal to your sense of holiday cheer –”

“You mean exploit it.”

He shrugs. “You say potato, I say –”

“I say, shut up,” I growl. “Why should I even bother giving you the time of day after what you did?”

Suddenly, the light in his eyes, and his smile, dims a little. His shoulders slump, and I can see him that whatever it is on his mind, and heart, is weighing on him heavily. Maybe it has been for the last ten years.

“Honestly, I can't give you a reason why you should,” he says. “Not a valid one. Not the kind of answer you deserve. I'm simply hoping that you can find it in your heart to hear me out. And like I said, after you listen to what I have to say, if you still tell me to fuck off, I'll never bother you again. I swear it.”

I let out a long breath and look at the crowd around us. Everybody is busy laughing and talking to one another, as if our little melodrama had never happened. That's the one thing I love about New York – people know how to take things in stride and move on quickly. I turn back to Carter and feel my heart stutter drunkenly inside of me. He's as beautiful today as he was ten years ago. He's so beautiful it hurts.

I open my mouth, my mind fixed and focused, ready to tell him to get lost, that he can't undo the past. I have a snark, bitter, and biting comment all queued up and ready to go. But, when I hear the words that actually pass my lips, I cringe outwardly – and then mentally kick myself repeatedly.

“Fine,” I say. “Let's go.”

Carter lets out a breath and gives me a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Darby,” he says. “All this time –”

“Shut up,” I say, angry at myself. “I promised to hear you out. Nothing more. Now, let's go get this over with.”

He gives me a little wink and puts his hand on the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd. I reach back and slap his hand away, drawing a soft chuckle from him. He grabs a couple of glasses of wine as we pass by a waiter carrying a tray, and gestures to some doors near the rear of the hall.

“Through there,” he says.

He leads me through the doors and down a long corridor to another set of doors. We pass through them, stepping out onto a small patio in an enclosed garden. There's a slight chill in the air and I shudder, though I don't know how much of it is from the cold. Fall is definitely in the air, and New York is inching its way toward winter, but it's not too horrible. Not just yet. Carter sets the glasses down on a small table near a bench and takes off his jacket, draping it around my shoulders.

“Thank you,” I say softly.

“Please,” he says. “Sit.”

I take a seat and he hands me one of the glasses of wine. I accept it with a small nod of thanks, and take a sip, needing a little extra fortification for this exchange. I expected Carter to sit down next to me, but he carries his glass, pacing back and forth in front of me, instead. If I didn't know better, I would say he's nervous. But, the Carter I knew was never nervous. That Carter was always confident and full of bravado – or just bluster.

He stops pacing and turns to me. Carter stands before me, holding his glass of wine, his other hand in his pocket, a look of uncertainty on his face. It's as close to vulnerable as I've ever seen Carter before and I feel my heart going out to him – something I quickly and ruthlessly stamp out. Not only does he not deserve my pity, I can't afford to be weak right now. Carter is like an apex predator, and if he smells weakness, he'll pounce.

“I've thought about this moment for a long time,” he says, a sheepish grin on his face. “I used to have a speech all memorized and rehearsed and everything.”

“What happened to it?”

He shrugs. “Thinking about it now, it seems trite and insincere,” he says. “You deserve better.”

“Yeah, I do, Carter,” I snap. “I certainly deserve a lot better than getting ghosted too.”

“Yes,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Yes, you do.”

“What the hell happened back then, Carter?” I ask. “Why did you vanish like that? No call, no message, no, 'hey, go fuck yourself, Darby.' Nothing at all. I thought things were going great between us, and then I woke up one day, and it was like you fell off the face of the earth.”

He lets out a long breath. “It's complicated,” he says. “Or, at least, it was.”

“That's bullshit,” I say and start to get to my feet.

“Wait,” he says. “Please. Give me a chance to explain.”

I blow out a frustrated breath and glance at my watch. “You have two minutes.”

He gives me a crooked grin. “It might take a bit longer than that.”

“A minute forty-five,” I say.

“Look, Darby,” he says. “I'm sorry I bailed on you like that. I know I hurt you.”

“Yeah, you did,” I snap. “You have no idea how bad you hurt me, Carter.”

“You're right, I don't know,” he says. “Believe me though, it was nothing you did, or –”

“Yeah, that's great,” I say. “It's also easy for you to say now. Doesn't change all the time I spent beating myself up, thinking otherwise.”

“I'm sorry, Darby,” he says. “I truly am. If I could take all that hurt onto myself, I would. In a heartbeat.”

“Yeah, well, you can't,” I say. “It'd be nice if you got a taste of the hurt you caused me, but it isn’t possible.”

I lean back against the back of the bench and take a long drink of my wine, willing the tears in my eyes to not fall. He doesn't deserve them. What he does deserve, however, is my bitterness and anger. And that's all I plan to give him.

“Not that it compares in any way, but it wasn't easy for me either, Darby,” he says softly. “Please believe me when I say, you weren't the only one who was hurting.”

I scoff. “You're the one who left.”

He lets out a long breath and looks away from me. “You're right. There’s no excuse for that.”

“Why'd you do it, Carter?” I ask. “All these years, I only ever wanted an answer to that question. Why did you run out on me like that?”

He starts pacing again and his demeanor changes. It's clear to see he's agitated and upset. About what, I have no idea. But, it's something, that to my eye, looks like it has bothered and weighed on him for years.

“What is it, Carter?” I ask.

He runs a hand through his hair and turns back to me once more. Gone is the smile and the playful twinkle in his eye. His expression is grim, his jaw clenched. It's as if he's been debating whether or not to tell me, and has come to a decision – even though he knows I won’t like it.

“Your brother paid me a visit,” he says. “Back then. After we'd been seeing each other a little while. He randomly showed up at my apartment one night.”

Suddenly, I have a feeling I know where this is going. Back then, Mason was arrogant – so arrogant, he thought he could control my life. Thought he knew what I wanted and needed better than I did. Thought he knew what was best.

Asshole.

“He told me that if I didn't stop seeing you, he was going to use his leverage with the cops...”

His voice trails off and he looks away again, an expression of fury and uncertainty written upon his face. I can see that he's frustrated and has been that way for a long time.

I have no idea what Mason held over him, but it’s clear to me, that even ten years later, Carter's rage is still as fresh as the day my brother threatened him.

“Use his leverage to do what, Carter?” I prompt.

He paces in front of me again, his hand deep in his pockets, his other hand holding his wine glass so tights, I'm afraid he's going to shatter it, a scowl etched deep upon his face. As furious as I am with him, I hate to see him in such obvious pain and distress over something my brother did.

“It's okay, Carter,” I say. “You can tell me.”

He stops pacing and turns to me. The pain in his eyes is plain as day, but it disappears after a few seconds.

“Mason told me that he was going to have the cops and the DA go after Pops if I kept seeing you. Said he'd use his position as an attorney to fuck with Pops,” he finally says. “Told me he'd be pin some unsolved murders on him.”

“Murders?” I ask, feeling my blood begin to turn to ice as fear ripples through me. “Did Pops actually kill somebody?”

Carter shakes his head. “No, of course not,” he says. “I mean, I don't think so, no.”

“You don't think so?'

He growls, clearly growing more frustrated. “I mean, it's not something we’ve ever sat down and talked about,” he says. “All I know is that whatever Pops did in the past, he’s atoned for it ten times over. He's a good man. The best man I know.”

“So, you traded me for Pops,” I say.

I know how unfair it is for me to say that, but I'm still hurting, and want to stick it to him anyway. Petty? Definitely. But, right now, I'm feeling pretty vindictive.

“It's not like that, Darby,” he says. “Your brother gave me no choice. I wanted to be with you – you have no idea how badly it killed me every fucking day to not be able to see you. But, I couldn't let Mason railroad Pops into prison for something he didn't do. Pops was – is – like a father to me. The only person, besides you, to ever see anything good in me. Anything worth growing and nurturing. Only other person who thought I'd amount to anything at all.”

I sit back and let out a long breath. I'd like to say I'm surprised to learn Mason is the reason behind what happened, but I'm not. I've always known he was capable of some shady, underhanded shit, but this elevates things to a whole new level. Even for him. The depths he would stoop to, just to control me, never fails to amaze me.

As pissed as I am at Mason for interfering in our relationship like that, I still can't let go of my anger toward Carter. Can't see my way past the pain. He'd made a conscious decision. There were other ways he could have handled it. Maybe, gone to the cops himself. Talked to Pops and gotten the whole story. He could have done a lot of things, but didn't. In the end, he'd walked away from me over a threat that, for all he knew, wasn't even legitimate.

“Probably didn't do,” I say. “You sacrificed our relationship and threw away the feelings we had for each other, for a potential killer.”

Carter's face hardens and a dark shadow passes through his eyes. “I know that Pops isn't a killer, Darby,” he says, his voice low. “He's the best man I've ever known. I wouldn't be where I am today if it wasn’t for him.”

We stare at each other in silence for a few moments, the tension between us almost tangible.

“Is there anything else?” I ask. “Anything else you wanted to get off your chest?”

He recoils like I just slapped him, and I see something fill his eyes – pain. Good. I want him to hurt like I did.

“Did you really think it was going to be that easy, Carter?” I ask. “That you say you're sorry, tell me it was my brother's fault, and we just pick up where we left off ten years ago?”

“To be honest, I was sort of hoping that –”

“Yeah,” I say. “You don't even know the first thing about me. You don't even know if I'm involved with anybody right now. For all you know, I could be married and have ten kids.”

That cocky little smirk touches his lips. “You're too young to have ten kids.”

“Shut up,” I say. “That's not the point. The point is –”

“Are you?” he asks. “Married? Involved with somebody?”

I let out a frustrated breath and stare at him. Carter’s arrogance is still astounding. That he thinks he just can waltz into my life – ten years after destroying it – and start over like nothing ever happened is beyond maddening. Honestly, it makes me want to slap him.

“That's not your business, Carter,” I say. “Not anymore. We had a good thing going, but you ruined it. And you aren't getting a second bite at the apple. Not after what you did. I can't.”

“Darby, please,” he says. “I'm just trying to make this right.”

I get to my feet and take his coat off my shoulders, dropping it on the bench behind me. I stand before him, lifting my chin defiantly, and summon all the strength and attitude I can manage.

“Some things can't be made right, Carter,” I bitterly state. “You don't get a second bite at an apple you tossed away and left to rot.”

“Darby, I –”

“No,” I snap. “I've moved on. I think you should too.”

I walk off the patio and make my way back to the main gallery room, where I'm assaulted by a wave of a rambunctious Christmas tune played by the string quartet. I want to say it's Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, but my head is so full of thoughts right now, I can't be sure.

I walk through the gallery, and head for the coat check, quickly gathering my things, my evening ruined. That's just another log on the bonfire of anger I have burning inside of me. I've wanted to attend this damn gala for years, and when I finally get the chance, Carter rises up like a malevolent spirit to suck all of the joy and life out of the evening. It's really not fair.

Then I think about how I got to the gala in the first place, and my mind drifts back to my brother. Mason. It's because of him that I'm here. And apparently, it's also his fault that I'm here spiritually and emotionally in regard to Carter.

As I stand at the curb and flag a cab, I can't seem to push the image of Carter's face out of my mind. When I left, he looked so lost – like he was wounded beyond comprehension.

I think he actually believed we would just patch things up and move forward. From personal experience, I know that Carter’s a force of nature, and not used to hearing the word, “no.” He always got what he wanted. Always.

So, to be able to shoot him down like that, and leave him in a pile of burning emotional rubble, was more than a little bit satisfying. What can I say? I can be petty as hell.

I'm not going to lie, a small part of me enjoys the fact that I'd scored a direct hit on Carter. That he got a small taste of how much he had hurt me. There's another part of me, though – the emotionally traitorous, and stupid side – that wants nothing more than to take him into my arms and soothe him. And yeah, pick up right where we left off.

I've really moved on, huh?