"Etienne—"
"Look at our omega."
I turned the phone toward Presley.
She froze, her eyes going wide. "What are you doing?"
"Showing them how beautiful you look."
"Etienne!" Her face went scarlet. She tried to cover her face with her hands, but I caught her wrists, holding them down gently.
"Stunning," Fritz's voice came from off-screen. A second later, his face appeared next to Hastings, his expression shifting from confusion to appreciation. “Wait, is that Presley?”
“Thanks,” Presley muttered.
"No, it's the Queen," I said dryly.
Hastings said nothing, but his jaw tightened. His eyes tracked over her face, her hair, the jumper that showed her perky breasts.
"What do you think?" I asked them. "Should I take her to the match looking like this?"
"Like I told you, you look stunning," Fritz said immediately. "Absolutely stunning."
Presley made a small noise of protest, but her lips curved upward. She liked it. She liked them seeing her, admiring her.
"Have an amazing day," Hastings said finally, his voice rougher than usual. "Both of you."
I ended the call and pocketed my phone.
Presley stared at me, her cheeks still pink. "I can't believe you just did that."
"Why not? They should see you. They should know what they're missing while they're stuck on a plane."
"This is just an arrangement."
"Is it?"
She didn't answer. She just grabbed her bag and headed for the door.
I followed, smiling.
The drive to the stadium took forty minutes.
Presley sat in the passenger seat of my Range Rover, her hands twisted in her lap. She'd been quiet since we left the townhouse, staring out the window at the passing buildings.
"You're nervous," I said.
"I'm fine."
"You've been chewing your lip for the past ten minutes."
She stopped immediately, her hand flying to her mouth. "I just—what if people judge me?"
"Why would they judge you?"
"Because I'm nobody. I'm a waitress from a caravan park, and you're—" She gestured vaguelyat me. "You."
I reached over, taking her hand. Her fingers were cold, trembling slightly.
