Gregory orchestrated this perfectly.
The woman standing beside me is breathtaking in an objective, clinical way. Platinum blonde hair styled in an elegant updo. Soft, blue eyes. Model-thin frame wrapped in an exquisitesilver gown. A senator's daughter, Evangeline Ashford. Every inch of her screams old money and political dynasty.
But she looks frozen. I can probably thaw ice in winter faster than her.
"Smile," she murmurs without moving her lips, her practiced socialite expression never faltering. "Your agent is watching from near the bar."
I paste on a smile that feels like broken glass.
"How long do we have to keep this up?"
"Until our respective jailers decide we've performed adequately." Her fingers tighten lightly on my arm. "We're both prisoners to your agent and my father. The only difference is your cage has better lighting."
I glance down at her, really looking this time. There's exhaustion behind the perfect makeup and designer dress.
"Evangeline..."
"No need to be kind," she cuts me off gently. "It only makes this harder."
A photographer approaches, and we both shift seamlessly into our roles. She leans into me, laughing at something I haven't said. I place my hand on the small of her back, playing the attentive date. The camera flashes, capturing what will become tomorrow's gossip fodder.
NHL Hockey Star and Senator's Daughter: New Power Couple?
The headline practically writes itself.
Gregory will be thrilled. Senator Ashford will approve.
And I'll hate every second of it.
The photographer moves on. Evangeline steps back immediately, putting careful distance between us.
"I need a drink," she says.
"Make it two."
She walks toward the bar.
I scan the crowd, looking for an escape route or someone who won't bore me to tears with discussion about market trends and political campaigns.
That's when I see her.
Ivy.
She's standing near the far wall, talking to an older woman with salt-and-pepper hair and the build of a former athlete. The woman must be Maya O'Connell, Ivy's former research supervisor. She's tall with dark brown eyes that assess everything with sharp intelligence. There's an intensity to her presence, the kind of confidence that comes from years of commanding respect in male-dominated spaces.
Yet I barely register Dr. O'Connell because Ivy is wearing emerald green. The dress is modest by gala standards; sleeves to her elbows, hem to her knees.
But it fits.
Actually fits, instead of drowning her petite frame like those oversized cardigans she hides in. The color lightens up her brown eyes, and her straight black hair falls loose around her shoulders instead of being pulled back in a practical ponytail.
She looks radiant and confident. Like she belongs in this room full of accomplished people.
Like she's completely forgotten about me.
Dr. O'Connell says something, and Ivy laughs. It makes her whole face lighten up. It's the kind of laughter I haven't heard from her. A hot, possessive feeling twists in my chest.
Jealousy.
