Her lips part on a silent inhale. The golden flecks in her eyes shift, the memory of last night flashing between us.
She doesn't pull away. She steps closer, resting her hands flat against my chest. "Do I have to wear another suit?"
"You can wear whatever you want," I tell her, lowering my head until my mouth is inches from hers. "As long as you wear the ring."
She smiles, a slow, dangerous curve of her lips. "I haven't taken it off."
I kiss her. It isn't the frantic, desperate collision from the kitchen last night. It is slow, deep, and entirely possessive. I taste the sleep on her tongue, the lingering warmth of the bed we just left. She leans her weight against me, her hands sliding up to grip my shoulders.
When I finally pull back, her breathing is uneven.
"Go get dressed," I murmur, my voice rougher than I intended. "We have an audience to entertain."
**
The dining room at the Peninsula Hotel is a masterclass in understated wealth. The walls are paneled in dark wood, the chandeliers are subtle, and the tables are spaced far enough apart to ensure absolute privacy.
Except, we are not here for privacy.
I requested the table nearest the massive windows overlooking the street. It is a strategic vulnerability. Anyone walking past the hotel can see us. More importantly, the three paparazzi currently stationed across the street with telephoto lenses have a clear, unobstructed line of sight.
Audrey is sitting across from me. She chose a dark burgundy dress from the wardrobe I bought her. It has a high neckline, long sleeves, and a cut that manages to look entirely professional while simultaneously drawing attention to every curve of her body. Her hair is pulled back into a sleek, severe knot.
She looks untouchable.
"They've taken at least fifty pictures in the last ten minutes," she says, taking a small sip of her sparkling water. She doesn't look out the window. She keeps her eyes fixed on me, playing the role perfectly.
"They are waiting for a mistake," I reply, cutting into my steak. "They want a photo of us looking bored, or angry, or distant. It supports Preston’s narrative."
"Then we shouldn't look distant."
Audrey sets her glass down. She reaches across the table, her hand sliding over the white linen tablecloth, and covers my hand with hers.
The movement is smooth, natural, and completely devastating.
I stop moving. I look down at her hand resting over mine, the vintage diamond catching the light from the chandelier above us. Then, I look up at her face.
She is smiling at me. It isn't the sharp, sarcastic smile she uses as a weapon. It is soft. Genuine. It reaches her eyes.
"You're staring, Malcolm," she murmurs, her thumb brushing lightly over my knuckles.
"You are a very convincing actress," I say, my voice dropping to a low register.
"I'm not acting."
The words hang in the air between us.
The noise of the dining room—the clinking of silverware, the low murmur of other conversations—fades into the background. I stare at her, trying to find the lie, trying to find the manipulation.
There is none. She is sitting in a room full of people who view her as a target, surrounded by cameras, and she is looking at me like I am the only safe place in the world.
I turn my hand over, tangling my fingers with hers. I grip her hand firmly, my thumb resting over her pulse point.
"Smile, Audrey," I murmur, lifting her hand to my mouth. I press a slow, deliberate kiss to her knuckles, keeping my eyes locked on hers. "Let them take the picture."
A faint flush spreads across her cheeks. Her breath hitches, a tiny, involuntary reaction that the cameras will absolutely capture as genuine affection.
We finish the lunch in a state of hyper-aware intimacy. We talk about the logistics of her new office. We discuss the freelance clients she wants to contact. We do not talk about Simon, or Preston, or the engagement party. For an hour, we exist ina bubble of our own making, performing for the world while silently communicating truths to each other.
