Malcolm picks up his tablet. He doesn't look at the phone again.
"You are not going to reply," Malcolm says calmly.
"I know that." I grab the phone, shoving it back into my pocket. "I just... I hate that he still thinks he can summon me. He thinksI’m just going to sit in a cheap apartment and cry until he throws me a bone."
"He thinks that because it’s what you’ve always done," Malcolm says.
The words hit me like a slap. I flinch, the sting of the truth burning the back of my throat. I open my mouth to defend myself, to tell him he doesn't know anything about my relationship, but the words die on my tongue.
He’s right. I was the accommodating fiancée. I compromised. I bent over backward to make sure Simon’s fragile ego was never bruised.
Malcolm stands up. He walks around the island, stopping right next to my stool.
"Stand up," he orders softly.
I swallow hard, sliding off the stool. I am standing so close to him that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
"He thinks you are weak," Malcolm says, lifting his hand.
I freeze. His knuckles brush against the side of my neck, right below my jaw. The touch is feather-light, completely at odds with the violent energy radiating from him. My pulse stutters. The contrast between the cold metal of the vintage ring on my finger and the heat of his skin against my neck short-circuits my brain.
"Tomorrow night," Malcolm murmurs, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw, "there is a charity gala at the Field Museum. The mayor will be there. The press will be there. And Simon will be there."
My eyes widen. "Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow." Malcolm drops his hand, stepping back and severing the connection. The loss of his touch leaves a cold patch on my skin. "We are going to walk into that room, Audrey. You are going to wear a dress that costs more than his car. You are going to wear my ring. And you are going to let him realize that you are no longer a civilian."
I press my fingernails into my palms, trying to anchor myself. The fear and the adrenaline are mixing together, creating a toxic, intoxicating cocktail.
"What if he talks to me?" I ask.
A slow, lethal smile spreads across Malcolm’s face. It’s the smile of a man who has already won the war before the first shot is fired.
"He won't," Malcolm says. "Because I will be standing right next to you."
He turns and walks out of the kitchen, disappearing into the dark hallway leading to his master suite.
I stand alone in the kitchen, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound in the room. I look down at my left hand.
The diamond catches the faint light again.
I came out here for a slice of pizza. I am going back to my room as the weapon of a billionaire psychopath.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, open the message thread with Simon, and hitBlock.
Then, I walk back to the guest bedroom, and for the first time since I arrived, I don't lock the deadbolt.
CHAPTER 6
MALCOLM
I adjust the silver cufflink on my left wrist, staring at my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window of the living room.
The glass turns into a mirror against the dark Chicago skyline. I am wearing a black tuxedo, cut and tailored by a man in Milan who has my exact measurements on file. It is the uniform of my class. It is the armor I wear when I am required to stand in a room full of politicians, corporate thieves, and my own blood relatives, and pretend we are not all predators looking for an exposed throat.
"Preston Vance arrived at the Field Museum ten minutes ago," Grant says, stepping out of the private elevator. He is wearing a dark suit, holding a tablet with the evening’s security logistics. "He has his usual detail. Simon arrived shortly after, accompanied by his new fiancée."
I don't look away from the window. "What is the media presence?"
