"He cannot use you to hurt me," I say evenly. "Because he cannot touch you."
"I know. But I don't want you to lose everything you built because of a fake engagement that turned into a war."
It isn't fake.
The words sit heavy on my tongue, but I don't say them. Not yet. She needs to walk into that ballroom tonight believing that she is an equal partner in this operation. If she knows the extent of what I have already sacrificed, she will feel guilty. Guilt causes hesitation, and hesitation tonight will be fatal.
"I am not going to lose anything that matters," I promise her.
The SUV slows down as we approach the massive iron gates of the Vance estate.
The scene outside the mansion is chaotic. There are at least three times as many cars as there were for the family dinner. A redcarpet has been rolled out across the stone driveway, flanked by velvet ropes. The press is contained behind the ropes, their cameras flashing in a continuous, blinding strobe.
Grant pulls the SUV up to the main entrance.
"Stay close to me," I murmur, my hand sliding from hers to rest on the small of her back.
"Always," she replies.
Grant opens the door. The noise of the crowd hits us instantly. Shouts from photographers, the low hum of the valets coordinating the vehicles, the sharp winter wind cutting through the courtyard.
I step out first, buttoning my jacket, and turn back to offer Audrey my hand.
She steps out of the car.
The reaction is identical to the gala, but magnified by a factor of ten. The gold silk catches the floodlights, shimmering like liquid fire against the dark stone of the mansion. The photographers go absolutely feral.
"Malcolm! Over here!"
"Audrey! Who are you wearing?"
"Is Preston Vance inside?"
I ignore them. I keep my hand anchored firmly on Audrey’s bare back, guiding her up the red carpet. She doesn't flinch. She keeps her chin high, her expression a perfect mask of untouchable elegance.
We reach the top of the stairs. The two security contractors at the door hold up their RFID scanners.
I don't slow down. I look directly at the larger of the two men.
"Put the scanner down," I say, my voice cutting through the noise of the press behind us.
The contractor hesitates, his eyes darting to Grant, who is standing right behind my shoulder. The contractor lowers the scanner and pulls the heavy oak door open.
We step into the foyer.
The interior of the house is suffocatingly opulent. The floral arrangements from the dinner have been replaced by massive, cascading displays of white roses. The string quartet has been upgraded to a full chamber orchestra playing in the main ballroom.
I guide Audrey toward the entrance of the ballroom.
The room is packed. The entire board of directors for the Vance holding company is here. The mayor is here. The elite of Chicago are holding crystal flutes of champagne, waiting for the spectacle to begin.
And standing on the raised dais at the far end of the room, looking like a king surveying his court, is Preston Vance.
Simon is standing next to him, wearing a black tuxedo that looks identical to mine. The blonde receptionist is clinging to his arm, wearing a white gown that looks entirely too much like a wedding dress.
"They look ridiculous," Audrey whispers, her breath warm against my neck.
"They look desperate," I correct her.
