Chapter 6
The grand ballroomshimmered with excess crystal chandeliers cascading light across vaulted ceilings, reflections splintering through glass and stone.An orchestra swelled beneath the murmur of conversation, champagne flutes chimed softly, and the air vibrated with practiced elegance.
Power lived here.
It wore etiquette like armor.
I stood beside Creed at the edge of the room, one hand resting lightly near the collar at my throat, acutely aware of the attention drawn toward us.It wasn’t a question of belonging—it was the demand of presence, the way rooms like this required definition.You either claimed your place or allowed it to be assigned.
The dark violet gown molded to me with deliberate precision, beadwork catching the light each time I shifted my weight.My heels pressed into the marble floor, sharp enough to keep me grounded.Creed’s presence at my side sharpened everything else.
He hadn’t spoken much since we arrived.Not in the car or at the door.I told myself his silence wasn’t distance, it was calibration.
When he offered his arm, it wasn’t possession but alignment.A clear, intentional signal.
As we moved into the crowd, his hand settled at my back with quiet authority.He didn’t steer me.He placed me.And every step I took beside him felt observed, measured, understood.
“Smile,” he murmured.
The word landed as correction.
I adjusted easily, letting the expression soften my face without weakening my posture.Creed introduced me without flourishing or disclaimer.He never explained my presence.He didn’t need to.
I wasn’t an accessory.
I was context.
The shift was immediate.I felt it ripple through the room as conversations recalibrated, attention reorganized.Creed hadn’t brought me here to be admired.He’d brought me to be read.That unsettled me more than if I’d been displayed.
I wasn’t here by chance.Creed had brought me for a reason, though what that was remained maddeningly unclear.Was I a pawn in some unspoken game?A trophy to be paraded before his peers?Or was this his way of reminding me that while I might stand at his side, he was in control?
Half an hour into the greetings, I rejected that thought.
My presence was exposure.The kind that demanded composure rather than submission.
The pressure of Creed’s hand at the small of my back pulled me into the present, grounding and unmistakably deliberate.When I glanced up, his gaze remained forward, assessing the room with practiced control.
“Creed.”
