“Something came up,” he says smoothly. “My apologies. I promise I’ll make it up to Sienna.”
Aunt Isla’s irritation dissolves instantly. She beams—actually beams—like a woman watching a victory she prayed for unfold in real time.
She reaches for my hand, then his, and presses them together. “Go,” she says. “Greet the guests. They’ve been waiting to see you both.”
“I’ve already done that,” I reply calmly. “Since he arrived late, he can handle it.”
Her smile tightens. “As a couple, Sienna.”
I don’t argue. There’s no point.
Sebastian turns to me, a faint smile touching his lips, like he’s mocking me. He holds out his hand.
I take it.
The contact is immediate. Sharp. Unwanted and undeniable.
Electricity skates up my arm, sets my nerves alight in a way I refuse to acknowledge. His fingers close around mine, tightening for the briefest second. Not affection. Not possession.
Restraint.
As if he’s anchoring himself against something dangerous.
I lift my chin and step forward, pulling him along before he can decide otherwise.
If we’re going to play the perfect couple, then fine.
But I’ll lead.
To my shock, he doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t resist. He simply falls into step beside me, matching my pace like he’s done this a thousand times.
The evening unfolds like theater.
We move through the garden beneath strings of warm lights and chandeliers hung from trees. Laughter rises and falls. Champagne glasses clink. Deals are hinted at in half-sentences and knowing looks. Everywhere we go, heads turn. Smiles sharpen. Cameras lift.
Sebastian’s hand settles at my lower back.
When we finally stop for official photographs, his hand curves around my waist. Controlled. Measured. A touch designed to look effortless.
So I lean into him.
Just slightly.
Enough.
I almost laugh when his body betrays him, when his spine locks, when his breath catches for half a second. What did he expect? That I would pull away? Flinch?
No.
If he thinks I’ll play delicate, he’s already lost.
I place my hand on his chest, fingers splaying over the solid line of muscle beneath his suit. Then I drag them—slow,intentional—feeling the way his heartbeat stumbles under my palm.
He shudders.
The photographer grins. “That’s excellent. Let’s get another.”
I adjust my angle, turning just enough to press closer, my smile soft, almost affectionate. Provocative, but perfectly acceptable. Intimate enough to sell the illusion. Dangerous enough to mean something else entirely.
