I look up at him, and his eyes have gone wide, his pupils dilating as he stares at me with an expression I can’t quite read. Awe, maybe. Wonder. Like he’s seeing something miraculous that I can’t see.
“Forge?” My voice comes out breathless.
He blinks, seems to shake himself slightly, then smiles—but there’s something different in his expression now. Something intense and almost reverent. “It’s just… uh, you look beautiful,” he says softly, but his voice has gone rough, and his hand tightens on mine for just a heartbeat before he releases me.
As he walks around to the driver’s side, I press my hand to my racing heart. Something just happened. Something significant. I felt it—a pull so strong it was almost physical, like every cell in my body suddenly recognized him as mine.
When he slides into the driver’s seat, I catch him looking at me again with that same awed expression before he forces his attention to the road.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Perfect. Everything’s perfect.”
But I can feel the tension humming through him, can sense that he’s holding something back. We’ll need to talk about this. Later, when we’re not on our way to the most important professional event of my year.
The drive to the Beverly Hills hotel is filled with comfortable conversation about his day at the firehouse and my final preparations for the Morrison custody case. But underneath our words, there’s an awareness thrumming between us—tonight is the test.
If we can navigate this evening together, if I can show him off to my colleagues and feel proud rather than defensive, then maybe I’m finally ready for what comes next. Thanksgiving at the firehouse is less than a week away. Less than a week to prove to both of us that I can integrate the two parts of my life without losing myself in either. The thought should terrify me. Instead, it fills me with something close to anticipation.
“Nervous?” he asks as we pull up to the valet stand.
“Terrified,” I admit. “Not about you, it’s about everything else. My colleagues, the clients, the partners. This is very public, very professional. If I screw this up…”
“Hey.” He reaches over and takes my hand, his thumb stroking across my knuckles. “You’re not going to screw anything up. You’re brilliant, you’re beautiful, and anyone who doesn’t see that isn’t worth your time.”
His confidence in me is both steadying and overwhelming. “What if I get a work emergency?”
“Then you handle it professionally and come back to me,” he says. “We figured this out, remember? We’ve put systems in place, so the choices become easy.”
A few moments later, we’re walking into the hotel’s grand ballroom. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm light over a sea of elegant gowns and tuxedos, the soft murmur of conversation mixing with the gentle strains of a string quartet. Although I’ve done this many times before, this feels different because Forge is beside me, his hand warm and steady on the small of my back.
It’s been a while since the laws have changed that now allow the Others to mix outside of the Zone for purposes other than work. Prejudice and bigotry still exist, both blatant and subtle. Forge is the only Other in the room, and he’s handling it like he belongs here. I have to admit, I’m impressed, relieved, and a little turned on by his quiet, unassuming confidence.
“Jordan!” One of the senior partners approaches with her usual bright smile. “You look absolutely stunning. And you must be Forge.” She extends her hand with genuine warmth. “I’m Patricia Williams I’ve heard wonderful things.”
“Ms. Williams,” Forge replies, his handshake confident and his posture relaxed. “Thank you for including me tonight. Jordan speaks very highly of the firm.”
I watch Patricia’s face carefully, noting the slight surprise in her expression. She was clearly expecting someone less… polished. Less comfortable in this setting. The realization that my colleagues have probably been assuming I was dating someone inappropriate hits me like a slap.
“Forge is with the L.A. Fire Department,” I say, slipping my hand through his arm. “He keeps the city safe while the rest of us argue about billable hours.”
“How fascinating,” Patricia says, and her interest seems genuine. “Emergency services must be incredibly demanding work.”
“It has its challenges,” Forge agrees. “But there’s something to be said for work that has clear objectives. Someone’s in danger, you help them. Not a lot of gray area.”
Patricia laughs. “I imagine that’s refreshing compared to the legal profession. Half our job is creating gray areas where none existed before.”
As they continue chatting, I notice how naturally Forge fits into the conversation. He’s not trying to prove himself—he’s just being genuinely interested in what Patricia has to say while offering his own insights when appropriate. The confidence he’s displaying in this setting surprises even me. I’d been worried about him feeling out of place, but he seems completely at ease.
“Jordan,” a familiar voice interrupts, and I turn to see David approaching with his usual predatory smile. My ex-husband looks exactly the same—expensive suit, perfect hair, that smug expression that used to make me feel small. “You look lovely tonight.”
“David.” I keep my voice neutral, professional. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“My firm is one of the corporate sponsors,” he says, his eyes flicking dismissively over Forge before returning to me. “I have to say, I’m surprised to see you here with… company.”
The implied insult hangs in the air like a toxic cloud. Before I can respond, Forge steps forward, not aggressively but enough to make his presence impossible to ignore.
“David, isn’t it?” Forge’s voice is perfectly polite, but there’s steel underneath. “Jordan has mentioned you. I’m Forge.” He doesn’t offer his hand.
