“Bet you’ve never been railed like that either.” I smooth my hand over her ass.
“I feel like it was more of a turbo jet, but yes, you got your workout in,” she giggles.
“Ready to go?”
“Ready,” she says, looking like a movie star.
The event is a glittering, frost-toned dream. Crystal chandeliers drip like icicles under the vaulted ceilings of the Met. The theme isIce Castles, and the crowd has dressed accordingly.
It’s one of the most prestigious charity galas in the city. Tonight, it’s also my battleground. This is where I introduceSelena as my wife and network for the final nail in David Mason Enterprises’ coffin. Sadly, Carl Besheir is also here. He wants to lock me in to legitimize his shady deals.
Selena stands at the edge of the red carpet. She is draped in a midnight-blue silk wrap that looks like poured ink. The necklace around her throat sparkles with enough diamonds to blind a small country.
“You’re staring,” she teases gently.
“That’s because you look like you just walked out of a dream.”
Her cheeks warm as the cameras begin to click.
I take her arm and we step into the courtyard. A chirpy, platinum-blonde woman in an iridescent feathered minidress practically sprints toward us, phone camera rolling.
“Griffin Calloway! The man, the myth, the perpetually eligible bachelor. Wait...” Her eyes land on Selena’s massive ring. “Who. Is. This?”
“This is my wife,” I say, voice firm. “Selena Calloway.”
Socially Sorell, the internet sensation who terrorizes high society, blinks. “Wife? Oh my God. That’s wild. Because I swear I saw you here last month with—what’s her name—the art dealer from Prague?”
Selena’s bicep tightens under my hand. Her elegant smile falters. The camera stays on her face just long enough to catch the crack in her composure.
“That was a client dinner. And a moot point because Tereza Novak is engaged to the Crown Prince of Lichtenstein.” I raise my chin, giving her a cold stare.
“Oh, right,” Sorell says, undeterred. “Totally moot.” She turns to her audience. “Well, internet, Griffin Calloway is married! Say hello to Mrs. Calloway!”
The phone is in Selena’s face. She smiles, but I see the panic in her eyes.
“Okay, you’ve had your two minutes, Sorell. Leave us alone.” I steer Selena away.
“Most people like the exposure,” Sorell gripes to our backs.
“I don’t,” I snap.
I let the incident pass and slip into work mode. I spot David Mason across the room. I have to leave Selena for a bit to finalize the deal.
“I need to have a conversation. Why don’t you find our table? I’ll join you in a minute,” I say.
Beckett told me she needs small, frequent meals. I don’t want her to be alone, but I don’t want her to hear the viper I’m about to become.
“Okay,” she says softly.
“The bar has ginger ale. Or mint tea. I had them stock it for you. Either one is good for your tummy.” I gently touch her stomach as she removes her wrap. For one second, I realize my child—a fraction of me—is under my palm.
“Thank you, Griffin,” she says graciously.
As she walks toward the table, I see a woman intercept her. My head whips around.
Melody Talbot.
Fuck.
