Art’s hand stills on my thigh.
“I’d love to try it,” I say, holding out my glass, and Juliette pours.
Conversation flows around us. Felicity is telling a story about a designer meltdown at Fashion Week that has Merrick cackling and even Lance’s mouth twitching at the corner. Alex wanders over to steal the breadbasket and makes a comment about “Tiffany forcing them apart with seating arrangements because she doesn’t want to watch true love when she’s such a frigid bitch,” and Felicity toasts him for it.
For a few minutes, it almost feels normal. Almost feels like a group of friends at a dinner party instead of a minefield where every glance and touch could detonate.
Then Art’s hand slides fully under the hem of my dress.
His fingers press against the bare skin of my inner thigh, and I suck in a breath that I have to disguise as a cough. His palm is warm and firm and proprietary, inching higher in slow, measured increments he knows I can’t react to. Not here. Not with a hundred people around us and his father watching from the end of the table.
He leans in, his mouth against my ear.
“I missed you,” he whispers. “I know I haven’t been around enough. That changes after tonight. I promise.”
His fingers squeeze my thigh, and his thumb strokes the sensitive skin just below the crease of my hip.
I hate it. And I hate myself forwhyI do.
Lance’s calf is still pressed against mine. A counterpoint to everything Art is doing. Where Art’s touch is loud andpossessive, Lance’s is quiet and constant, asking for nothing except to be close to me.
I stare at the centerpiece and recite a recipe in my head.
A clinking of glass cuts through the noise. Paxton rises from the head of the table, champagne in hand, and the room settles into an expectant hush.
“Thank you all for being here tonight,” he says. “Tiffany and I are grateful for your friendship, your support, and your presence as we celebrate another year together.”
He turns to Tiffany. She smiles up at him, and it’s a beautiful smile. It’s warm and genuine and full of something that looks like hope. Like maybe this year, he’ll say the thing she’s been waiting to hear.
“To my wife,” Paxton says. He lifts his glass. “Thank you for your partnership, your patience, and your unwavering commitment to this family.”
The room raises their glasses. “To Tiffany.”
“And to Roman Montgomery and the Montgomery Organization.” He tilts the glass toward our end of the table. “For bridging old divides and merging with Calloway Enterprises to form a new hope for Rosebrook Falls with WayMont Corp. The future is bright.”
Tiffany keeps smiling, but something behind her eyes dims. I know that look. It’s the look of a woman who keeps waiting for the man she loves to choose her and keeps hearing everything except the words she needs.
I wonder if that’s what I look like.
Paxton sits down. Tiffany touches his arm, and he pats her hand and leans in to press a kiss to her temple. She melts into him, like she’s desperate for it.
Across the table, Merrick catches my eye and lifts his eyebrows slightly. I look away.
Then Art pushes back his chair and his hand leaves my thigh.
I jolt, shock spreading over me like frost.
He stands, and the room’s attention shifts to him with ease. He picks up his champagne, and there’s something in his expression that makes my stomach freefall.
What the hell is he doing?
“I hope you’ll all indulge me for a moment,” Art says, his voice carrying effortlessly. “Watching Paxton and Tiffany tonight, celebrating their love and commitment, it got me thinking. About what it means to find someone who makes you want to be better. Someone who challenges you, who inspires you, who makes the chaos of this world feel manageable.”
Oh, no.
“Most of you know I’ve been keeping someone special away from the spotlight for a while.” He looks down at me, and the tenderness in his eyes is so convincing that for one horrible second, I almost believe it’s real. “That wasn’t fair to her. And tonight, I want to fix that.”
The room has gone completely silent. I can hear my own heartbeat. I canfeelLance across the table, rigid as stone, his calf still pressed against mine.
