The fewer people I know here, the better.
“Victoria! Wonderful to see you.”
The familiar voice stops me in my tracks as soon as we enter the lounge. I spin around to face Eleanor, all glistening pearls and vinegar.
“Hello.” I choke out the greeting, wishing I could fade into the toile wallpaper right now.
“And how wonderful to see you with your hockey star again. Ben?” She attempts to furrow her always-smooth brow but fails.
“It’s Bennett. Great to see you.” He takes her outstretched hand and gives her a tight smile, faking warmth.
“Of course. All I can remember is the bad boy of hockey.” She waves her hand at his pecs and half-smiles at the moniker. Bennett stiffens beside me and I scan the room for an exit.
I’ve got nothing.
“Reformed,” Bennett says, shoving his hand into his pocket.
“Right. Victoria, I must introduce you to Miles. He’s an investor and Preston’s been waxing poetic about him for eons. Come.” She latches onto my shoulder, pulling me toward a group of men in dark suits, drinking equally dark liquor.
Momentarily flustered, I grab a glass of wine from a circulating server on the way over and Bennett tags along behind us. Cold dread slithers through me, but there’s no way to disengage from Eleanor at this point. A potential investor’s on the line, and I know firsthand just how skilled Eleanor’s spin game is. I can’t give heranythingto talk about or the fund and the team could suffer.
“Gentlemen, this is Victoria Prince. Max Prince’s daughter. She runs the Prince hedge fund — and handles errant hockey players on the side.” She chuckles and gestures at Bennett and his knuckles flex. Inwardly I cringe, but I can’t make a scene here. The stakes are too high. Much as I’d love to bitch slap Eleanor, now’s not thetime. Not with Miles standing right in front of me and donors prowling the perimeter.
“Ms. Prince.” The tallest man tips his head in my direction. “Miles Gerring. Pleased to meet you.”
I straighten my shoulders, standing as tall as possible in my stilettos. I recognize Miles’s name from research reports. The guy’s an absolute whale and would be a huge score for the fund.
“Mr. Gerring. Great to see you tonight.”
Miles launches into his current reallocation strategy — Southeast Asia exposure, private equity, the kind of conversation I’d normally own. I slide into professional mode, the ground steadying beneath me.
Almost normal.
Almost fine.
Bennett stares off into the distance, a step behind me. His hand hovering close to my hip but not touching me. Electricity humming between us and for a split second I think this can work.
“Miles…” Eleanor slides back over, a dirty martini in her hand. “You simply must hear how devoted Tori’s been to the Crushers organization. Max assigned her personally to shepherd Bennett through his little probation situation.”
Bennett’s jaw ticks and he takes another half-step back, distancing himself. A small movement I feel more than see.
Shit.
Eleanor is a viper, her fangs hidden behind glossy, professionally-plumped lips.
And I hate that Bennett’s her current target — because of me.
I should reach for him, remind him we’re in this together. I lift my hand, searching for his fingers. Onetouch. A small signal that I’m his, he’s not alone, and Eleanor MacDonald can go straight to hell.
Eleanor’s eyes gleam at me beneath the glow of the chandelier and I hesitate.
Immediately pulling back, my fingers stay clasped together, cheeks aching from the fake professional smile plastered on my face.
She drops her voice, forcing Miles to lean in. “It’s so admirable how seriously she takesallof her responsibilities — professional and otherwise. After all, optics are everything.”
Bennett goes completely still. He doesn’t even seem to be breathing.
Miles’s smile falters, just slightly. A microscopic beat, a quick blink, and in that second I know I lost him.
