He stops and pauses there for three full seconds. “Good, you’re ready to go.”
I grin. “I am.”
His mouth curves. Not quite a smile, but close. “You look nice.”
Nice.Not beautiful. Not stunning. It’s the safest word he could choose, but his eyes say more than his mouth does.
He’s been colder since the hotel. Since we woke up wrapped around each other and pretended it didn’t happen. Then he found out about Callum, and the distance got worse.
He’s polite, of course. He asks if I need anything, makes sure Sandra knows my schedule, and checks that the car’s ready whenI need it. But there’s no true warmth unless we’re in public or in front of his staff.
Evan keeps finding reasons to touch my shoulder, my hand, my back. Callum flirts relentlessly—grinning at me over breakfast, calling me Red, and cracking jokes that make me blush.
Silas doesn’t do any of those things. He doesn’t avoid me, but he makes sure we’re never in a room alone, never standing too close, and never talking about anything real.
Unless he needs people to believe we are married. This part of the relationship matters to him.
He motions me forward. “Let’s go.”
When he sees Sandra waiting by the door with my coat, his fingers find my elbow. The touch is only for show, but my pulse still kicks up.
Silas takes my coat from Sandra and helps me into it. He’s such a gentleman when he wants to be.
“Have a wonderful time,” Sandra coos, like we are heading off to prom.
“Thanks, Sandra.”
The driver has already pulled the car around by the time the elevator stops on the ground level. Silas’s palm settles between my shoulder blades as we walk. I slide into the car. He follows.
The museum is twenty minutes away. I spend the drive staring out the window, trying not to fidget. I’ve worked there for months, but I’ve never been to one of these galas. Interns don’t get invitations. We hear about them later, secondhand, from the curators who spent the night charming donors.
Tonight, I’m walking in on Silas Locke’s arm.
The car pulls up to the entrance, and photographers line the steps. Silas gets out first, buttons his jacket, and extends a hand. I take it.
The camera clicks as soon as the photographers see Silas. I keep my face neutral and let Silas guide me up the steps. His hand moves to my waist, warm through the silk.
The lobby is full of people I recognize. Board members. Major donors. Colleagues who’ve never spoken to me outside of passing me files or asking me to pull records from storage.
They turn when we enter, and I see the moment they register who I’m with. Their expressions show everything—surprise, curiosity, and whispered conversations behind champagne flutes.
Silas doesn’t acknowledge any of it. He leads me deeper into the crowd, and when a board member approaches, he introduces me without hesitation.
“This is Tania. My wife.”
The board member—Frederick Ashford, I’ve seen him in meetings—extends his hand. “Mrs. Locke. A pleasure.”
I shake it. “Please, call me Tania.” My last name is not Locke, but I don’t correct him. “I actually intern here.”
His eyebrows lift. “You do?”
“I specialize in Renaissance and Baroque art. But I’ve been helping with the new contemporary acquisitions.”
Interest sharpens in his expression.
We talk for ten minutes. He asks intelligent questions. I answer them. Silas stands beside me, not interjecting. When another couple joins the conversation, I shift to include them, discussing the upcoming Caravaggio exhibition and the authentication challenges.
By the time we step away, Frederick has handed me his card.
