She steals my cologne, spritzing a cloud and walking through it, the scent of sandalwood and citrus clinging to her skin.
I find myself watching her, memorizing the way she moves, the focused frown as she debates earrings, the way she hums under her breath—some pop song I don’t recognize.
It feels real. Easy. Like we’ve done this a hundred times. The thought is a sucker punch to the ribs.
Four days. That’s all this is. The clean break looms like a guillotine.
We walk to the cocktail reception together. Her hand finds mine, fingers lacing through mine naturally. It’s part of the act, I tell myself. Selling the couple vibe. But it feels like more. Her hand is small and warm in mine, a perfect fit.
The ballroom is already buzzing. Soft jazz, clinking glasses, the low murmur of wealthy people networking.
Natalie glows in pale pink, surrounded by her bridesmaids.
Blake is with the rest of the groomsmen, his charm dialed up to eleven.
And there—weaving through the crowd like a sleek eel in white silk—is Scarlett. Her smile is sharp enough to cut glass. Her eyes lock onto Jane and me for a fraction of asecond too long.
And then I see her. Standing near the bar, scanning the crowd with the calm efficiency of a hound assessing a territory. Impeccable cream pantsuit. Hair in a severe, elegant knot. Minimal jewelry. She looks like she was genetically engineered in a Prescott Family lab. Candidate Clone.
“Ten o’clock at the bar,” I murmur to Jane, nodding subtly towards the bar. “The one who looks like she audits parties for fun.”
Jane follows my gaze. A slow smile spreads across her face. “Oh, she’s perfect. Textbook.”
“Remember. Follow my lead. And for goodness' sake, try to look a little less… heterosexual.” She squeezes my hand.
Before I can process that, she’s pulling me forward.
We glide through the guests. Jane’s posture shifts, becoming straighter, more assertive. The ‘devastatingly competent’ part of her persona clicks into place.
We reach the bar just as Candidate Clone turns, her cool, assessing gaze landing on us.
"Weston Prescott."
“That’s me,” I confirm.
“Eleanor mentioned you’d be here. I’m Veronica Vance.” She extends a perfectly manicured hand. Her handshake is firm, brief, and efficient. Like signing a document. Her eyes flick to Jane. “And you are?”
“Jane Cooper,” Jane says, stepping slightly in front of me. Not aggressively, but possessively. Her smile is dazzling, utterly fake. “West’s partner.” She emphasizes ‘partner’ like it’s a legal term.
Veronica’s eyebrow arches a fraction. “Partner? Eleanor didn’t mention—”
“Oh, Eleanor may have her suspicions,” Jane cuts in smoothly, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur. She leans in slightly. “It’s all still a bit…delicate, you understand? Given thecircumstances.”
She throws a meaningful glance my way, her expression a masterpiece of sympathetic concern.
Veronica’s gaze sharpens, shifting from professional assessment to active curiosity. “Circumstances?”
Jane sighs dramatically. “West has been so brave. Truly. Navigating everything with such grace.”
She places a comforting hand on my arm. I try to look ‘brave’ and ‘graceful’. Probably just look constipated.
Veronica frowns. “I’m afraid I’m not following. Eleanor simply said West was attending solo and might appreciate meeting someone with shared professional interests.”
Jane lets out a soft, disbelieving chuckle. “Oh, bless Eleanor. Always trying to fix things, isn’t she? Even when they’re… well… unfixable in thetraditionalsense.”
She lowers her voice further, drawing Veronica in. “Look, Veronica—I’ll be blunt. West isn’t looking for a wife. Or a girlfriend. Or… well,anykind of romantic entanglement with a woman.”
Veronica blinks. Once. Twice. Processing. “I… see.”
