Page 78 of Twisted Truth

“Can we get a kiss?!”

Asher pointedly ignores all of their instructions as if it’s all beneath him. Which it probably is. I’ve learned quickly that he doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to—unless his own board threatens to take hundreds of millions of dollars away from him, and even then, he only agrees with dozens of stipulations in place and threats of his own.

Asher still hasn’t said a word to me by the time we make it into the event, and it looks like he doesn’t plan to change that as he silently takes my hand and starts to lead me to our table.We’re one of the last guests to arrive, so the room is already full of mingling people, holding champagne flutes and tumblers of liquor. Many of them turn to look at us, curious.

“Mr. Langford,” a gentleman says, sidling up to us.

“Wilkins,” Asher says with a curt nod.

“My wife and I were just discussing this happy turn of events. She worries about you, you know.” He turns and gives me a wide smile. “What a lovely thing she is, too.”

Do I thank him?He’s kind of creepy.

“It’s kind of your wife to keep my welfare in her thoughts,” Asher says without inflection.

“Jack Wilkins,” the man says to me, extending his hand.

“Ella Hale.” I shake his hand.

“It’s so lovely to meet you.”

“Thank you. You as well.”

“Yes, Asher, my wife and your mother are very close, so she’s heard your mother’s woes over your personal life for years.”

Asher’s glare could cut glass. “Well, hopefully she will now hear nothing but joy out of my mother, who adores Ella.”

“Of course she does. Ella’s a vision. And a dedicated employee of Langford Holdings,” he says with a sly chuckle. “I myself never entertained the office relationship dynamic, but I can see the, ah . . . temptation.” He gives me a wink.

Gross.

“It was nice speaking to you, Wilkins,” Asher says, sounding like this conversation was anything but nice.

He tugs me along, and we’re interrupted a few more times before we make it to our table. Asher repeats the same curt, clipped responses to everyone who stops us, clearly not wanting to engage with anyone.

I’m a bit dizzy from the liquor on an empty stomach and the heels, so I’m grateful when we finally make it to our table. The MC welcomes everyone, and introduces the entertainmentwhile the first course is served. Tonight’s gala is geared toward funding music education in local schools, and so several schools have been invited to perform choir and orchestral numbers. But what has drawn out who’s who of New York’s high society tonight is the celebrities engaged in the project, some of which will be performing as well.

I turn my attention to the performers and pick at my dinner, ignoring Asher’s brooding mood to my left. The children are adorable, which makes me smile. And the celebrity performers are incredible. But none of it cracks the man beside me. Even under the not-so-veiled scowls Matthew shoots his way, Asher is quiet, distant, and aloof through the entirety of the program. The tension between us is like a wall of solid ice.

“Can you at least pretend you’re not miserable?” I say in his ear during a round of applause. “Everyone keeps staring. You know what’s at stake tonight.”

He musters a fake smile for all of two seconds then lifts his whiskey back to his mouth, ignoring me again.

What is his problem and what in the hell happened?

All I can come up with is that he regrets this. Regrets me. And why shouldn’t he? He was supposed to pick a high society woman who already runs in these circles. I’ve seen enough of those women tonight, directing their feigned boredom toward me, to know that they’re curious about me, but at the same time, thoroughly unimpressed. I’ve tried to ignore their stares, but it’s hard when they feel like they’re coming from every direction, one after another.

When the program ends, the MC invites everyone to the floor for one proper dance before the DJ comes out and the debauchery of the night commences.

“This is a nice touch for us old folks,” a woman at our table says. She winks at me.

“What is?” I ask.

She and her husband stand up, and he takes her hand, leading her around the table. They stop near me.

“I don’t like to stay once the loud music starts rumbling the building,” she says. I nod and smile. She must be in her eighties. “But I do like to have an old-fashioned dance with my sweetheart before we retire for the evening.”

The symphony starts up a lovely piece of music I don’t recognize, and she and her husband walk to the ballroom floor, then hold each other close as they begin to dance.