I turn to greet a donor my father signaled to, only to feel the air shift. When I glance over, Nate is several steps away, speaking to one of his army buddies. I take the opportunity to breathe.
Big mistake.
“Miss Barlow,” a smooth voice says from behind me. “It’s a pleasure.”
I turn and come face to face with a man I definitely don’t know. Tall, polished, with a navy blue tux and the kind of charm that glows too bright under ballroom lights. His smile is too practiced.
“Thank you,” I reply politely, still unsure who he is.
“I must say, I wasn’t expecting you to be this… breathtaking. The photos didn’t do you justice.”
I blink, unsure how to respond. “That’s very kind of you.”
He steps closer. Too close. “So, when’s the wedding? Or is the engagement just for the headlines?”
Before I can form a reply, a presence looms behind me like a thundercloud. A warm hand slides around my waist, and Nate’s voice cuts in, cool and controlled.
“She’s breathtaking, yes. And very much taken.”
The man blinks, startled. “I didn’t mean any disrespect?—”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” Nate interrupts, voice smooth but laced with steel. “But if you’re done enjoying the view, I’d like a word with my fiancée. Privately.”
Without waiting for a response, he guides me away, hand tight on my waist, jaw ticking.
“Nathan,” I hiss under my breath once we’re in the shadows of the corridor, “what the hell was that?”
“He was undressing you with his eyes.”
“I didn’t even know who he was!”
“You didn’t need to. I did. And he wanted you.”
I arch a brow, trying not to grin. “What are you saying?”
He looks down at me, eyes burning with something raw. “I’m saying I didn’t like it. Not one bit.”
My heart stumbles in my chest.
“Nate…”
“You don’t see it,” he murmurs. “You walk into a room and every man wants to forget their last name. Including me.”
I swallow, caught off guard by how sincere he sounds. “You don’t get to be jealous. This whole thing was your idea, remember?”
“I know.” His voice drops, lower now, huskier. “But knowing something’s pretend doesn’t stop you from feeling it.”
He leans down, brushing his lips over my temple, and I close my eyes, overwhelmed.
“This was supposed to be a performance,” I whisper.
“Then we deserve a fucking Oscar,” he breathes.
And just like that, the chaos of the event, the headlines, the politics—they all melt away. All I can feel is him. The heat in his touch. The storm in his eyes.
And the frightening realization that maybe this whole thing… may no longer be a lie.
After what feels like hours of perfectly choreographed political smiles and practiced lines, we finally escape the ballroom. The weight of public scrutiny still clings to my shoulders like a designer shawl. My heels click softly against the pavement as we slide into the waiting limo—Dad joining us in the back, always in full Prime Minister mode, even when he's off duty.
