That nothing about us feels fake anymore.
But now isn’t the time.
Not when Derek has rattled her.
Not when she needs me to be exactly who I’ve promised to be tonight.
After the gala, I’ll tell her everything. After tonight, when I’ve shown her exactly what she means to me.
“Let’s go show Vegas what arealpower couple looks like,” I say instead, and her answering smile makes my chest ache.
The car waiting downstairs is a Bentley Continental GT. Sleek, black, and worth more than most people’s houses. I keep one in a private garage for nights when the Honda or the Harley won’t cut it.
Marley’s eyes widen when she sees it. “Where did you get this?”
“Borrowed it from a friend,” I lie smoothly, opening her door.
It’s not technically a lie.I’m friends with myself, right?
The drive to the gala venue passes in a blur of streetlights and easy conversation. Marley talks about her coworkers, pointing out who to avoid and who to charm, and I memorize every detail as if my life depends on it. Her hand rests on the center console between us, and halfway through the drive, I cover it with mine. She doesn’t pull away. Instead, her fingers lace through mine, and I feel that simple gesture all the way to my bones.
When we pull up to the venue, some upscale hotel ballroom dripping with crystal chandeliers and pretension, valets swarm the car. I hand over the keys and round the vehicle to help Marley out. She takes my hand, rising to her full height, which barely brings her to my chest even in heels.
The height difference between us has never been more apparent, and I fucking love it. Love that I can wrap this woman up in my arms and shield her from the world. Love that she has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes with trust written all over her face.
“Ready?” I murmur, offering my arm again.
She loops hers through mine, pressing close to my side. “Let’s do this.”
We walk through the entrance, and I feel the moment every head in the room turns toward us. Conversations pause mid-sentence. Someone drops a glass. The bartender stops pouring mid-pour to stare.
Because Marley is breathtaking, and I look like I could buy this entire hotel without checking my bank account first.
Well, technically, I can.
“Is that Marley Wren?” someone whispers.
“Who’s that guy?”
“Holy shit, he’s huge.”
I guide Marley through the crowd, my hand settling possessively on the small of her back. Her skin is warm through the thin fabric of her dress, and I feel her slight tremor, nerves, or excitement, maybe both.
Then I see him.
Derek.
Standing near the bar with a blonde woman clinging to his arm like a barnacle. She’s pretty enough in a generic, forgettable way, the kind of pretty that comes from expensive makeup and good lighting. But there’s an anxious energy radiating from her, the desperate need to please written in every forced laugh and clingy touch.
A second choice.
A rebound.
Merely a placeholder.
And Derek knows it.
His eyes lock on us the moment we enter his line of sight, and watching his expression transform is worth every penny this tux cost. His jaw goes slack. His eyes widen. And then, beautiful,perfect rage floods his face, turning his neck red and his hands into fists.
