My brain is struggling to process the conflicting data. The scent of cedar and expensive Scotch. The heat radiating from his chest. The lingering, phantom pressure of his mouth against the sensitive skin right below my jaw. It wasn't a sloppy, theatrical kiss meant for the cheap seats. It was deliberate. It was heavy.
It felt like a threat and a promise at the exact same time.
"You can breathe now, Audrey," Malcolm murmurs. His voice is pitched so low it barely carries over the sound of the string quartet playing near the dinosaur exhibit.
I drop my hand from his jacket, taking a quick, unsteady step back. My heel wobbles slightly on the polished marble floor, but I catch my balance before I can completely humiliate myself.
"I am breathing," I say, forcing my voice to sound annoyed instead of completely derailed. "I just wasn't expecting you to go off-script. We didn't rehearse physical contact."
"There is no script." Malcolm reaches out and smoothly takes the half-empty champagne flute from my other hand, setting it on a passing waiter’s tray. "And if we rehearsed it, it would look rehearsed. Simon knows you. He knows how you react when you are uncomfortable. If I hadn't touched you, he would have realized you were faking."
I press my lips together, tasting the faint residue of my own lipstick.
He’s right. That’s the worst part about Malcolm Vance. He is always, infuriatingly right. If he had just stood next to me like a bodyguard, Simon would have seen right through the lie. Simon knows I hate public displays of affection. He knows I hate being the center of attention.
But Simon doesn't know the version of me that lets a billionaire psychopath press his mouth to my neck in front of three hundred people.
"Where is he?" I ask, refusing to look toward the bar.
"He left the room," Malcolm says, his gaze sweeping the crowd with that same terrifying, predatory calm. "He walked out through the east corridor. His fiancée followed him about ten seconds later, looking highly confused."
A sharp, ugly spike of satisfaction hits my chest.
For a month, I have felt like a ghost haunting my own life. I watched Simon parade around the city, completely untouched by the wreckage he left behind. Now, he is the one running for the exit.
"Good," I say, lifting my chin.
"Don't get comfortable," Malcolm warns, placing his hand lightly on the small of my back again. The touch is strictly professionalthis time, but my skin still hums under his palm. "Simon retreating is a temporary victory. He will go to my father. Preston will demand an explanation, and Simon will have to provide one. The real war starts tomorrow."
"I can handle tomorrow," I reply, letting him guide me through the crowd. "Right now, I just want to survive the next hour without spilling anything on this dress."
We spend the next forty-five minutes navigating the gala.
It is a masterclass in social manipulation. Malcolm doesn't introduce me to anyone. He doesn't have to. People naturally gravitate toward him, drawn by the gravity of his wealth and the sheer novelty of his presence. Politicians nod at him. Corporate executives offer tight, nervous smiles.
And every single one of them looks at the ring on my finger.
I play my part. I smile when appropriate. I lean into Malcolm’s side when a particularly aggressive real estate developer tries to corner us near the silent auction tables. I let the vintage diamond catch the light.
But the entire time, my awareness is split. Half of my brain is playing the role of the devoted fiancée. The other half is hyper-focused on the man standing next to me.
He never leaves my side. He doesn't abandon me to fetch a drink or take a phone call. When a city councilman asks a thinly veiled question about how we met, Malcolm answers with a smooth, terrifyingly plausible lie about a private art gallery in New York. He weaves the narrative so flawlessly that for a terrifying second, I almost believe it myself.
"You're very good at this," I murmur to him as we finally break away from a group of philanthropists.
"Lying?"
"Controlling the narrative." I reach up and adjust a loose strand of hair that escaped my updo. "You make them believe whatever you want them to believe. It’s a little scary."
"It’s not magic, Audrey. It’s leverage." Malcolm glances at his watch. "People believe what is most convenient for them. Right now, it is convenient for them to believe that Preston Vance’s attack dog has been domesticated. It makes them feel safer."
"Are you?" I ask, the question slipping out before my filter can catch it.
Malcolm stops walking. We are standing near the edge of the room, partially shadowed by a massive marble pillar. The crowd is thinning out as people move toward the dining hall for the main event.
He looks down at me. The ambient light casts sharp shadows across the angles of his face.
"Am I what?" he asks softly.
