Audrey takes a deep breath. The tremble in her fingers stops. She slips her hand through the crook of my elbow, her bare skin warm against the fine wool of my tuxedo jacket.
"Let's go ruin a wedding," she says.
The ride to the Field Museum takes less than fifteen minutes. The privacy partition in the SUV is raised, sealing us in the quiet, climate-controlled back seat. Audrey spends the first ten minutes staring out the tinted window, her thumb rhythmically twisting the diamond ring on her finger.
I watch the movement. The metal scraping against her skin.
I reach across the leather seat and cover her hand with mine, stopping the frantic motion.
She flinches slightly, her eyes snapping to mine.
"Stop fidgeting," I murmur, keeping my hand over hers. "You are the one holding the knife tonight. Act like it."
"I'm just reviewing the timeline in my head," she lies, though she doesn't pull her hand away. The heat of her palm seeps into mine. "We walk in. We let the photographers take pictures. We mingle near the open bar. We wait for the gossip to reach your father."
"Correct."
"And when Simon approaches us?"
"He won't approach us immediately," I tell her, sliding my hand away so I don't cross a line I can't walk back from. "Simon is a coward. He will wait until he thinks he has an advantage. He will try to catch you alone."
Audrey frowns. "You said you wouldn't leave my side."
"I won't. But he will try. And when he realizes he can't, he will panic. Panic leads to mistakes."
The SUV slows down, pulling into the VIP drop-off lane in front of the museum. The massive neoclassical columns of the building are illuminated by floodlights. Even through the tinted glass, I can see the crowd of photographers, reporters, and Chicago’s elite bottlenecking near the grand staircase.
Grant opens my door. The cold night air rushes into the car, carrying the sound of overlapping voices and camera shutters.
I step out, buttoning my jacket with one hand, and turn back to offer Audrey my hand.
She takes it. She steps out of the SUV, the emerald silk pooling around her legs.
The moment her stilettos hit the pavement, the atmosphere shifts. A photographer from a local society magazine lowershis camera, does a double-take, and then violently nudges the reporter next to him.
Click. Click. Click.
The flashes start. Brilliant, blinding bursts of white light.
I place my hand on the small of Audrey’s back. Her skin is exposed right above the dip of the dress. The contact sends a sharp jolt of electricity straight up my arm, but I keep my grip firm, guiding her forward.
"Chin up," I murmur, my lips barely moving. "Smile, Audrey."
She does. It is a terrifyingly perfect smile. It doesn't reach her eyes, but the cameras won't catch that. They will only catch the sharp curve of her lips, the impossible elegance of the dress, and the massive vintage diamond sitting on her left hand.
We walk up the marble steps. The crowd parts for us.
People in my world know exactly who I am. They know I do not attend charity galas. They know I do not walk red carpets. And they certainly know I do not bring dates.
The whispers start before we even reach the coat check.
"Is that Malcolm Vance?"
"Who is she?"
"Look at the ring."
I keep my hand anchored on her lower back, steering her through the grand entrance and into the main hall of the museum.
