Phoenix guides me through the crowd with a hand on the small of my back. Guests part for him instinctively, acknowledging his presence with nods and smiles. He belongs here in a way I never will, moving through this world like he was born to it. Because he was.
Nicholas sees us approaching and his face breaks into a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Phoenix. You made it."
"Did you think I wouldn't?"
"After last week's disappearing act, I wasn't sure what to expect." Nicholas turns his attention to me, and I feel the fullweight of his assessment land on my shoulders. "And this must be the mysterious girlfriend I've heard so little about."
"Jade." I extend my hand, praying he doesn't notice how badly it's trembling. "It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Crawford."
His handshake is firm, brief, perfectly calibrated. "Welcome to our home, Jade. I hope you'll feel comfortable here."
Before I can respond, Olive appears at her husband's side. Her gaze sweeps over me from head to toe, taking in every detail of my appearance in a single glance. The dress. The jewelry. The way I'm standing too close to Phoenix, like I need him for support.
"So lovely to finally meet you," she says, and her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Phoenix has been rather secretive about you. We were beginning to think he'd invented a girlfriend just to get his father off his back about settling down."
"I assure you, I'm very real," I say, and immediately wish I could take the words back. Too defensive. Too eager.
But Olive just laughs, a polished sound that matches her polished appearance. "I can see that. Well, we must have you for a proper dinner soon. Just the four of us. I have so many questions."
The way she says it makes my blood run cold.
"We'd love that," Phoenix says smoothly, pulling me closer. "But for now, I should introduce Jade to a few more people before dinner is served."
"Of course, darling. Don't let us keep you." Olive waves us off with an elegant gesture, already turning to greet another guest. "We'll talk more later."
I let Phoenix lead me away, my legs unsteady beneath me. That wasn't so bad, I try to tell myself. They were polite. They were welcoming. There's no reason to think Olive suspects anything.
But I can't shake the feeling that she was looking right through me. That she saw every secret I'm trying to hide.
The next hour is torture.
Phoenix introduces me to tech billionaires who talk about their latest startup exits in numbers that make my head spin. Hedge fund managers who complain about capital gains taxes. Trophy wives who discuss their yacht purchases and Aspen vacations and the difficulty of finding good help these days.
I smile and nod and say nothing of substance. These people don’t ask about my writing or my interests or anything that might suggest I'm a person rather than an accessory. I'm Phoenix Crawford's new girlfriend, and that's all that matters. My entire identity has been reduced to my proximity to him.
"What does your father do?" a woman in a gold dress asks me, the fourth person to pose this question tonight.
"He's not in the picture," I say, and watch her face cycle through confusion, pity, and dismissal in rapid succession.
Phoenix rescues me with an excuse about needing to find the restroom, guiding me away from the crowd toward a quiet corner near the bar.
"If one more person asks me what my father does," I whisper through gritted teeth, "I'm going to scream."
Phoenix smirks, something wicked dancing in his eyes. "Want to get out of here?"
"God, yes."
He takes my hand and laces his fingers through mine. "Follow me."
We slip away from the party, moving through the house with the confidence of someone who knows every hidden passageand back stairway. The noise of the crowd fades as we leave the main rooms behind, replaced by the soft click of our footsteps on marble floors.
Phoenix stops in front of a set of heavy mahogany doors. "This is my mother's favorite room in the house," he says quietly. "I want to show you."
He pushes open the doors and leads me inside.
I gasp.
The library stretches before us, floor-to-ceiling shelves of dark wood that reach toward an impossibly high ceiling. Rolling ladders on brass rails lean against the stacks. A massive fireplace crackles in the corner, casting warm light across leather armchairs and antique reading tables. And books. Thousands of books, their spines gleaming in the firelight, some leather-bound and ancient, others bright with modern dust jackets.
