Page 57 of Gamebreaker

"I know." My voice sounded hollow. "I didn't—I wasn't paying attention to what I was—"

"That's worse," Laine said, looking so genuinely disappointed in me that I didn’t think my already limited relationship with her was going to recover from this incident. "You were so busy being uncomfortable with her honesty that you just casually destroyed her. You didn't even think she was worth your full attention while you did it."

She was right.

I'd hurt Harper while half-distracted, like she wasn't even important enough to insult deliberately.

The silence around the auction tables was killing me.

Isla spoke again, her voice flat and disappointed. I felt about six inches tall. "That was cruel, Cam."

"I know."

"Go after her."

"She doesn't want to see me."

"I don't care what she wants right now. You made this mess. You fix it. Now."

"Isla—"

"Cameron." She used my full name, which meant this was serious. Which meant I'd messed up beyond normal parameters. "You just took someone's trauma—someone's very real, very painful trauma—and threw it in their face at a public event. Because why? Because you're scared of your own feelings? Because she makes you uncomfortable? Because you can't handle someone who actually sees through your act?"

I looked at Trish. She wouldn't meet my eyes.

Looked at Mia. She was furious, her arm around Laine, who looked shaken.

Looked at the auction table where my fifteen-hundred-dollar bid sat next to Harper's twelve-hundred-dollar bid, physical evidence of how catastrophically I'd failed.

"I'm sorry," I said to Laine, the words inadequate and pathetic. "I didn't know about the article. I didn't mean to—"

"It's not me you need to apologize to," Laine said quietly. "And honestly? Even if you apologize to Harper, I'm not sure she should forgive you. That was unconscionable, Cam."

The word landed like a verdict. Unconscionable.

Not just cruel. Not just wrong. Unconscionable.

"I'll fix it," I said.

"How?" Isla asked, genuine question in her voice.

I didn't have an answer.

I grabbed my coat from coat check, left the gala without saying goodbye to anyone, walked through the ballroom on feet that suddenly felt like they were made of lead and shame. I kept my head down, avoided eye contact, and felt the weight of judgment from strangers who'd witnessed my cruelty.

Outside, the cool night air hit my face like a rebuke. I stood on the steps of the venue, surrounded by departing guests and arriving cars, trying to remember how to breathe normally.

My phone was in my hand before I consciously decided to reach for it. I pulled up Harper's Instagram, scrolled through her feed like it would provide answers, explanations, absolution.

Her latest post was from four hours ago. A mirror selfie in that emerald dress, taken in what I assumed was her apartment. The lighting was natural, golden hour streaming through a window. She looked beautiful and confident and real.

Caption: "Charity gala ready. Fingers crossed I survive the evening with my dignity intact."

The irony was devastating. Cruel. Perfectly calibrated to make me feel worse than I already did.

I'd taken her dignity. Stripped it away in front of Fashion City's elite because I couldn't handle my own fear, my own want, my own inability to be honest about what she meant to me.

I started typing a message. Deleted it. Tried again. Deleted it again.