Chapter 11
W e reach the turning point of the staircase where the guests can see us from the entryway, but I keep my eyes trained on the steps in front of me. The last thing I need is to trip and send myself sprawling onto the marble floor.
As we near the bottom, Silas and I pause a few steps behind William, who stops to address the room. I finally lift my gaze, nerves twisting in my stomach as I take in the scene below.
It’s a sea of faces—over a hundred guests gathered in the expansive entryway, every pair of eyes fixed on the family at the center of their attention. The coat check table has been relocated to another corner, clearing the space to make room for the crowd. The air is heavy with anticipation, the kind of silence that feels amplified by the weight of collective scrutiny.
In that split second, the realization hits the room like a ripple across water: one of these people is not like the others. Whispers begin to spread as guests register the unfamiliar woman not just standing with the Wells family, but attached to one of the most eligible and powerful men in the city.
The reactions are instant and varied, each one hitting me like a distinct note in a discordant symphony. Older women purse their lips, dissecting me from head to toe. Men of all ages exchange nods of approval, as though Silas’s choice has somehow validated their own tastes. Younger women roll their eyes, some barely concealing their irritation, before redirecting their attention to Silas with laser focus. Their longing is so palpable, I’m almost shocked their gazes don’t physically burn holes through him.
But above all, the crowd is united by one common reaction: confusion. A healthy dose of it. And frankly, I can’t blame them. This wasn’t on my bingo card for the evening, either.
The sudden flashes of cameras nearly blind me, and I flinch at the first pop of light. I blink rapidly to clear the black spots now swimming in my vision, heart lurching. Several photographers are scattered throughout the crowd, dressed in head-to-toe black and wielding cameras with practiced ease. The incessant clicks send fresh waves of discomfort coursing through me.
Of course, there are photographers. Why wouldn’t there be?
“Good evening, friends,” William’s voice booms across the room, commanding attention without effort. He raises his arms in a gesture of welcome, and I can practically hear the smile on his face. “My family and I are delighted to host you all tonight for our annual silent auction.”
His voice is steady and charismatic, the mark of a man who’s spent decades perfecting the art of public appearances. As he speaks, his words carry seamlessly over the room, outlining the night’s agenda and New Beginnings Housing Project’s mission.
Meanwhile, my grip on Silas’s arm tightens with each camera flash. The growing attention prickles across my skin, as though every lens in the room is aimed solely at me. The corners of my vision begin to blur, the crowd below blending into a haze of colors and faces.
I shouldn’t be here .
The thought echoes louder than anything William is saying. If my picture makes it to the tabloids—and it will—it’s game over. Peter will see it, and he’ll use it. Twist it. Whatever illusion of control I’ve been trying to maintain will shatter, and I’ll be left scrambling to salvage the contract on his terms instead of mine.
My pulse thunders in my ears, drowning out William’s speech. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, trying desperately to distract myself, but the panic continues to creep in.
Just when I think I’m about to lose it, Silas leans down, his mouth brushing the delicate spot just below my ear. His voice is low and commanding, steady as a metronome. “Inhale for ten, exhale for ten.”
I want to snap back at him, to reject his audacity to give me orders in a moment like this, but the words stick in my throat. My usual confidence, the sharp-edged armor I’ve perfected over years, has abandoned me.
Instead, I obey.
His warm breath lingers against my skin as I inhale deeply, counting to ten before exhaling with the same precision. He matches my rhythm, his chest rising and falling in sync with mine. His voice is soft now, muttering words I can’t quite make out.
After a few rounds, the storm inside me begins to settle. The buzzing in my ears fades, and my racing heart slows to a manageable pace. My senses sharpen once more, and suddenly, I’m acutely aware of everything. The tickle of Silas’s breath against my cheek, the faint spice of whiskey lingering on him, and the deliberate stroke of his thumb as it glides across the back of my hand.
I let out an uneven breath, roll my shoulders back, and shake my head slightly as if to clear away the fog.
“Good girl,” Silas murmurs, straightening up beside me. The words wrap around me like a weighted blanket, and the heat crawling up my neck now has nothing to do with anxiety.
I don’t look at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing how thoroughly he’s just pieced me back together. Instead, I steady myself, my fingers loosening their grip on his arm just enough to regain a sliver of autonomy.
But as William’s speech concludes and the applause begins, I can feel Silas’s eyes lingering on me. I can’t decide if his help was genuine or just another calculated move in whatever unspoken game he’s trying to make me play with him.
The room begins to pulse with its usual energy as William descends the final steps, encouraging guests to enjoy themselves while continuing to support the auction and its cause. The applause fades as the Wells patriarch seamlessly transitions into working the room. He shakes hands, cracks quick jokes, and commands attention with the effortless charisma of a seasoned politician.
Silas and I follow behind, but his approach is markedly different from his father’s. While William is overly engaging and warm, Silas’s demeanor is cooler, more controlled. His polite nods and curt greetings create an invisible barrier between him and anyone daring to approach. The space around us shifts like water parting for a shark, guests instinctively stepping aside to clear a path and then filling in the gaps once we pass.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice cracking as I finally find the courage to speak. Silas’s profile remains impassive, his face a mask of practiced neutrality. His only acknowledgment is the faint upward tilt of his lips, more a smirk than a smile. “I’ve never clammed up like that before.”
His head tilts slightly in my direction. “Before? Are you often on the arms of men hosting auctions?”
The warmth he’d shown moments ago is gone, replaced by the razor-sharp Silas Wells I’d met at Natalie’s art exhibit. His comment feels like a challenge, and my irritation flares instantly. I pull my hand back from his arm, glaring at him. The glint in his eyes tells me he’s enjoying this.
“You’re not the first man to charm me into being their date at an event like this,“ I snap back, my voice tight with sarcasm.
Before he can retort, a server approaches with a glass of whiskey. Silas takes it with a nod, his movements fluid and precise, then gestures for me to order. After quickly requesting a tequila soda with lime, I wait for the server to disappear before continuing. “I should have known there would be cameras here,” I admit, my voice quieter now. “I wasn’t thinking. They freaked me out.”
Silas doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze drifts over the room, taking stock of the crowd. Natalie, Davey, and Jeremy have disappeared into the throng of guests, each absorbed in their own conversations. Even Jeremy looks less detached as he chats animatedly with a group of businessmen near a cluster of leather chairs.
Silas’s hand remains steady at the small of my back, firm but unassuming as he guides me across the room. He steers me toward the paneled wall on the far side, away from the bustle of the crowd. Once we reach the quieter corner, he subtly shifts his hand, a gentle pressure to turn me until my back meets the cool surface. He steps in closer, his shoes nearly brushing mine, his presence overwhelming as the hum of awareness ripples through me.
I raise my eyebrows at him, trying to regain some semblance of control. “It’s not polite to have your back to a room full of people waiting to speak with you,” I point out, my tone teasing but edged with real concern.
He shakes his head slightly, as though warding off an intrusive thought. “Don’t apologize for having a normal reaction to something,” he says, ignoring my last comment completely. He adjusts his glasses with a quick push of his fingers. “I’ve been doing this my whole life, and even I can’t stand the cameras or the publicity bullshit.”
The server returns with my drink at lightning speed, and Silas takes the glass on my behalf, handing it to me with the same calculated precision as everything else he does. Our fingers brush briefly, and a flicker of heat crawls up my arm.
“Bullshit, huh?” I echo as I take a sip. The tequila burns less than his presence, though only just.
He shrugs, his expression relaxing slightly. “I’d rather just donate more money and skip the parties, but these events get other wealthy people to participate. The pros outweigh the cons.”
His words catch me off guard, and I find myself studying him more closely. I hadn’t pegged Silas as someone who would dislike the fanfare of wealth and power. Men like him usually thrive in environments like this. But his tone carries a weariness that feels genuine, and I can’t help but feel the faintest thread of empathy.
“I didn’t take you for much of a party guy,” I say, tilting my head in mock contemplation. “But I also didn’t think you’d hate them this much. Your family’s business benefits from the publicity.”
“There’s good and bad in everything, Scarlett,” he replies, my fake name rolling off his tongue. “I don’t have to like it, just tolerate it.”
“That’s fair,” I respond with a nod. Letting out a slow breath, I decide to steer the conversation back to safer territory. “As much as I love not making small talk with strangers, I don’t need rumors going around about me seducing you at your family’s charity event by hogging your attention in some dark corner.”
Silas doesn’t step back, but he straightens, offering me a sliver of reprieve from his pull. His expression shifts from contemplative to amused. “Is that the reputation you’ve earned since moving to Chicago? Gold-digging?” His words are a deliberate jab, accompanied by a sly sip of his drink.
My cheeks heat, and I grit my teeth.
Would it be inappropriate to deck him in front of all these people? Probably.
“Has anyone ever told you how absolutely insufferable you are?” I retort, my voice clipped.
His dark laugh rumbles between us, deep and unbothered. “Maybe,” he says, his smirk growing. “But I have to say, you wear frustration beautifully.”
I take a long sip of my drink, my fingers tightening around the glass as I glare at him. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”
“Won’t it?” he counters, his voice dropping just enough to make the air around us feel warmer. His glasses slide down his nose again, and this time, I don’t even bother suppressing the urge to roll my eyes.
We both take a drink, the silence between us thick but not entirely uncomfortable. Curious eyes and hushed whispers flit around us like moths to a flame, the guests clearly trying to piece together why I’m here, on Silas Wells’s arm no less. I catch sight of a few particularly bold onlookers and widen my eyes meaningfully, nodding subtly in their direction.
Silas follows my gaze and, with a faint but unmistakable flicker of irritation, pulls me gently by the wrist of my free hand. The motion is fluid but purposeful, turning us to face the crowd. He positions himself at my side, placing his hand firmly on my lower back, an unexpected display of decorum.
His tone is maddeningly nonchalant when he speaks again. “So, if it’s not for my money, you must be here for my good looks.” His eyes sparkle with mischief as he waits for my reaction.
I bark out a laugh, louder than I intended, the rim of my glass still pressed against my lips. “Your ego truly knows no bounds, does it?”
A slow smile spreads across his face, dangerously close to charming. “Would you like me to add humility to the list of things I’m insufferably good at?”
I shoot him a pointed look, my eyebrow arching with mock incredulity. “I think your humility got lost somewhere in that mansion-sized closet of yours. Right next to your collection of overpriced suits.”
For a moment, his grin widens, genuine amusement lighting up his features. But our exchange is cut short as a group of impeccably dressed guests approaches, their shameless stares and eager expressions making it clear they’re here for one reason only: to bask in even a sliver of Silas Wells’s attention.
Silas rolls back his shoulders, demeanor shifting effortlessly. The teasing edge in his expression melts away, replaced by a perfectly neutral but undeniably commanding air. His hand doesn’t move from my back, though it relaxes slightly, as if to remind me that, for now, I’m still part of his carefully curated image.
The guests begin their introductions with practiced ease, their voices a blend of sycophantic admiration and transparent opportunism. I plaster on a polite smile, watching as Silas navigates the conversation with undeniable ease. It’s a masterclass in control; disengaged enough to keep them wanting more, yet just present enough to make them feel important.
As I stand beside him, I realize this isn’t a game to him. It’s second nature. A survival tactic for someone who’s been surrounded by other predators his entire life. And while it’s impressive, it also makes me wonder what it would take to see the real Silas Wells.
–
As it turns out, being Silas’s date hasn’t provided me with any groundbreaking revelations in the three hours since we rejoined the party. In fact, I’ve learned only two things. First, Silas has an uncanny ability to deflect or completely shut down any meaningful conversation. Second, he wields enough power that people simply let him do it without complaint.
After fielding advances from nearly every hopeful socialite or business connection who dared to approach him, Silas steered us toward the bar, where Davey and Natalie were already standing. William and Jeremy disappeared into adjoining rooms to mingle, and while William’s absence is unremarkable, Jeremy’s is a relief.
Silas remains close but detached, splitting his time between our small group and private conversations with guests of his choosing. Watching the interactions is like observing a dance: cautious glances, tentative approaches, and visible relief when Silas finally nods someone over to speak. His presence seems to unnerve nearly everyone in the room, and they tread around him as though he’s a grenade with the pin pulled.
What’s infuriating, however, is that he hasn’t invited me to join him in any of these exchanges. Judging by the few passing glances he’s thrown my way, the idea is off the table entirely. I’m left with no choice but to linger near Natalie, who has finally settled into the relaxed rhythm of the evening after greeting a steady stream of guests. Leaning one elbow on the marble counter of the bar, she blows out a long breath, visibly relieved as Davey excuses himself to the restroom.
“My brother is quite the date, huh?” Natalie’s voice is dry, but there’s a hint of amusement in her tone.
I shrug, popping the last bite of bruschetta from my small plate into my mouth. “Honestly, he’s been more tolerable than most event dates I’ve had.”
Her lips twist into a skeptical scowl, and I nod in understanding.
“I know. The bar is basically underground.”
To be fair, in terms of typical dates, Silas has been nothing short of a gentleman. When he isn’t engaging in business talk, he’s attentive to me, Natalie, and Davey. The teasing, while ever-present, has been minimal, and he’s carried the conversation effortlessly. I’ve heard stories about their childhood, his favorite and least favorite professors in college, and even a little about Wells Corp’s upcoming foray into drugstore beauty products. In turn, they’ve asked about my upbringing, and though I keep my answers vague, I offer glimpses of the real me. Stories that feel like they belong to someone I used to know.
What I wasn’t prepared for is the weight of Silas’s attention. He listens in a way most people don’t: intent and undivided. It’s overwhelming to be the focus of someone so powerful, yet it also stirs something within me, a quiet thrill I’m not sure that I want to examine too closely.
A cool breath against my ear startles me. “Singing my praises over here, are we?” Silas’s low, raspy voice sends a shock down my limbs. I jump slightly, bumping into his chest. The unexpected contact makes my skin prickle with a mix of heat and ice.
I spin around, craning my neck to look up at him as he towers over me. One hand braces on the bar top next to my waist, his empty whiskey glass within reach. His gaze, which has been thawing all evening, now carries a distinct warmth that stirs something in the pit of my stomach.
“You’re doing a stellar job of leaving me alone,” I say, patting his chest mockingly. His muscles twitch beneath his sweater, firm and defined under my palm. A satisfied smile tugs at my lips, but it’s short-lived. Silas’s eyes darken as he opens his mouth—likely to deliver some cutting remark—only to be interrupted by a smooth, unfamiliar voice.
“If that’s the best compliment Silas Wells can get, I don’t want to know how the rest of us will fare.”
Silas’s gaze sharpens instantly, and we both turn toward the source. A man stands a few feet away, dressed in a sharp charcoal-gray suit that looks tailored within an inch of its life. He’s older than Silas but younger than William, with light-brown hair and piercing gray eyes. He’s conventionally handsome, but there’s a slickness to him, a too-perfect charm underscored by the kilowatt smile he flashes. The kind of man who could sell a glass of water to a drowning man.
“Martin,” Silas greets coolly, his tone clipped and distant. He makes no move to shake the man’s hand, nor does he bother with introductions. The casual authority in Silas’s voice is enough to communicate that this man, despite his polished exterior, isn’t a friend. “How respectful of you to join us as the party’s concluding.”
Sensing the tension, I force a respectful smile in the stranger’s direction, silently assessing him. Whoever Martin is, it’s clear that Silas doesn’t trust him. And judging by the glint in Martin’s eyes, he’s not here to make friends, either.
“And you are his clearly enamored date?” Martin ignores his jab as his eyes settle on me with a glint of curiosity, hand extended in greeting. I take it, and like Jeremy earlier, he presses a soft kiss to my knuckles. The gesture, while polished, leaves me with the same undercurrent of restlessness Jeremy’s did.
“Scarlett,” I confirm with a polite nod as he releases my hand.
“A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.” His tone is low, dripping with something just shy of inappropriate. A comment clearly meant to provoke, especially considering the host and my supposed date stand inches away.
Silas’s hand, which had been resting lightly on the bar, moves to my waist, the pressure of his fingers firm. “There are a few auction items I think will interest you, Martin.” Silas’s voice is sharp but controlled. “Unfortunately, my time—and my date—aren’t for sale.” His words hold an edge, but the slight tug on my hip makes my stomach tighten, though whether from irritation or something else, I can’t tell.
Martin’s lips curl into an easy smirk. “Pity. I was hoping to discuss some business with you and your father.”
“By all means,” Silas replies, taking a measured sip of his whiskey. “Find the old man and bore him to death.”
Martin tuts. “Now, we both know nothing I bring to the table is boring.”
“Nothing you’ve ever brought me has been worth my time or money,” Silas counters, his voice infuriatingly calm. “So forgive me for not caring to find a better word for it.”
Watching this exchange is like seeing two panthers circling each other but unwilling to pounce just yet. Despite Silas’s casual tone, his grip on my waist tightens slightly; a silent warning not to engage. Naturally, I do the opposite.
“I didn’t catch your last name,” I interject, feigning innocent curiosity as I shift my gaze back to Martin. Silas’s thumb presses just a fraction harder against my side in subtle protest, but I ignore it. Hell will freeze over before I take direction from him without question.
A flash of amusement crosses Martin’s face, his pride clearly stroked by my interest. “Shaw,” he answers, as if expecting the name to carry weight.
Shaw. The name scratches at the edges of my memory. Have I come across him in a past job, or is he familiar because of my research into the Wells family? Either way, I can’t place him. I tilt my head slightly but keep my expression neutral, allowing just the faintest trace of indifference to linger in my features.
“Shaw,” I echo, as though the name means nothing to me, which, presently, it doesn’t. Then I pivot slightly toward Silas, my decision already made. If there’s one thing I’ve learned tonight, it’s that Silas values loyalty. Earning his trust means staying on his side, even if it means ignoring someone who might be useful later.
Silas doesn’t acknowledge my movement, but I feel the shift in his stance, a slight relaxation of tension in the hand still resting on my hip. Natalie, however, takes the opportunity to redirect the conversation. “I think my father is in the music room,” she says, barely concealing her disdain. “I’m sure he’ll pacify your request for an audience.”
For the first time, Martin’s gaze shifts to Natalie, and the look he gives her makes my blood boil. It’s the kind of dismissive glance someone reserves for a piece of trash on the sidewalk, contemptuous and utterly dehumanizing. My fingers curl into a fist at my side, nails biting into my palm as a distraction from the rage bubbling beneath my skin. Natalie, to her credit, doesn’t flinch. She holds his stare with unwavering defiance, her chin tilted just slightly upward in challenge.
“It’s always a pleasure interacting with you… delightful Wells children,” Martin finally sneers, straightening his tie. Without another word, he turns on his heel and stalks off toward the music room.
As soon as he’s out of earshot, Natalie exhales a ragged breath, her mask of composure slipping just slightly. I press my back against the bar, angling myself to see both her and Silas at once.
“You’re lucky Davey was in the bathroom,” Silas hisses, his tone sharp enough to cut. He releases his hold on my hip to signal the bartender for another drink, his jaw tight with frustration.
“I’ve handled Martin before, and I’ll handle him again,” Natalie snaps, her voice lower and steadier now. She stares off behind the bar, her expression set in a way that dares anyone to question her capability. “I don’t need my husband to rescue me.”
The silence that follows crackles between them like static electricity. I make a mental note to dig deeper into Martin Shaw’s connection to this family. Whatever bad blood exists between him and the Wells siblings runs deep, and William’s apparent tolerance of him only adds another layer of intrigue.
The bartender slides Silas’s drink across the counter, and I glance at my own glass, realizing it’s nearly empty. “What time is it?” I ask, more to myself than anyone else.
“Five until ten,” the bartender answers politely.
I sigh inwardly. The evening feels like a wash. If Martin Shaw doesn’t amount to anything substantial, I’ll leave this party with nothing but a full stomach and a lingering headache. I glance at Natalie, who finishes her cocktail with the air of someone hoping to drown the memory of the last few minutes.
She meets my gaze, and I can see the exhaustion in her eyes. She’s putting on a brave face, but the cracks in her armor are visible if you know where to look. Something about that makes me like her even more.
“My car should be here in a few minutes. Want to walk me out?” I ask Natalie. A few minutes of cold air might be exactly what she needs.
“I’ll do it,” Silas answers before she can respond, cutting his sister off with a stern look. “Natalie is going to find Davey, let him know Martin’s here, and make sure they stay as far away from him as possible.”
“You act like Davey’s an animal,” Natalie retorts, crossing her arms over her chest. The subtle tension in her voice tells me that Davey, apparently, might loathe him more than anyone.
“When it comes to you? Yes.” Silas’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Just do me a favor and handle it before it becomes a real problem. Go to the attic or the study. I’ll find you after.”
Natalie’s jaw tightens, and it looks like she’s about to argue, but I step in, cutting the tension. “Go find Davey,” I say, offering her a small, closed-mouth smile. “I’ll be fine. But behave, alright?” I tease, opening my arms for a hug.
She sighs, the smallest grin tugging at her lips as she steps forward and hugs me tightly. I pat her back reassuringly before she steps away and nods. “Alright, alright. See you soon,” she murmurs, heading off to find her husband.
As she disappears into another room, I turn to Silas. “Is she going to be okay with that man here?” I ask, watching his expression carefully. Silas takes a sip of his drink, his shoulders sagging slightly as he exhales a long, tired breath.
“Natalie’s resilient. She’ll get Davey upstairs and away from Martin while I figure out how to deal with him.” His voice carries the weight of exhaustion, and for a moment, I catch a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability behind his steadfast demeanor.
“Whatever Martin did, I’m sure he regrets ever becoming either of your enemies,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. Silas’s lips twitch, but his eyes remain distant as he nods toward the foyer, silently signaling for me to lead the way.
We weave through the thinning crowd; most guests left after the auction closed, but a fair number remain, lingering in small groups with their drinks. The foyer is quiet now, save for the soft chatter of two staff members at the coat check. I hand over my ticket, and they quickly retrieve my jacket. Before I can grab it, Silas plucks it from the staff member’s hands and unfolds it, holding it open for me.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I mutter, turning my back to him and slipping my arms into the sleeves. Despite my words, there’s a thoughtfulness to the gesture that I can’t ignore.
“What kind of date would I be if I didn’t help you with your coat?” Silas’s voice is low, smooth, and entirely too close. When I turn to face him again, I realize just how close he’s standing, and the intensity of his gaze nearly knocks me off balance.
The corner of his mouth curling into a look that could melt steel, but he doesn’t say another word. Instead, he fastens the buttons of my coat, and the deliberate way his fingers brush against my body sets my skin on fire.
I swallow hard, forcing my expression to remain neutral even as heat blooms across my face. He buttons the last fastener near my collar, his fingers lingering for a moment, eyes as black as the void between the stars.
“Thanks,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper as I take a step back, trying to create space. My phone buzzes in my hand, and I glance down to see an incoming call from a local number, likely my driver waiting outside. I answer quickly, confirming I’m on my way out, and hang up. “That’s my car,” I say, more to myself than to him.
Silas doesn’t move immediately. Instead, he reaches for my phone, the sudden motion freezing me in place. My heart stutters as I watch him open the contacts and add a number. Within seconds, he locks the screen and places the phone back in my hand, his touch lingering just a moment too long.
“You’re giving yourself a lot of credit if you think I’ll text you just because you added your number,” I taunt, trying to hide the way my voice falters. Silas chuckles as he straightens out my collar.
“And to think, you were making fun of my ego earlier.“ His words are smooth and annoyingly charming.
He turns me toward the door, his hand guiding me gently by the elbow. A staff member holds the door open, and the biting winter air immediately nips at my face. I shiver, ducking my head against the cold as Silas leads me down the steps to the curb where my driver waits. Keith steps out and opens the door, but Silas is already there, his hand hovering to assist me. I ignore it, climbing in on my own.
When I settle into my seat, I glance up to see Silas leaning over me, one arm braced against the door frame and the other gripping the top of the door. His pink cheeks and windswept hair make him look impossibly handsome, a fact I hate myself for noticing. The scent of his cologne, woody and sweet with a hint of spice, lingers between us, and I struggle to focus.
“Text me when you make it home safe,” he says, his voice soft but firm, a command disguised as concern. He steps back and closes the door with a decisive thud before I can respond.
I watch through the window as he strides back up the path to his house, his figure cutting an imposing silhouette against the glow of the streetlights. Letting out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, I lean back in my seat, my pulse pounding in my ears.
Text him when I get home? What’s next, sit, stay, roll over?
But as Keith pulls away from the curb, a small part of me—one I refuse to acknowledge—can’t stop replaying the way he said it, like he actually expected me to listen.