Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Piper
The Whitman Foundation Annual Gala unfolds around me like a perfectly choreographed performance I've watched my entire life but never wanted to star in.
Crystal chandeliers drip light across the ballroom like liquid diamonds. The ceiling soars three stories high, and white-gloved waiters glide between clusters of Chicago's elite society, offering champagne in flutes so delicate they look like they'd shatter if you breathed on them wrong.
Everyone here is beautiful. But it's the kind of beauty that requires personal trainers, dermatologists, and stylists on speed dial.
Somehow, I fit right in.
At least that's what Mom said when she found me in the hotel suite two hours ago, staring at my reflection in the Valentino gown she chose for me.
"See? When you try, darling, you can be so elegant."
The dress is objectively stunning. Smooth silk that clings to my figure before cascading to the floor in a waterfall of fabric that pools around my feet.
The neckline dips just low enough to be sophisticated without crossing into scandalous territory—though the way it skims the curve of my collarbones feels like it's flirting with the line.
My hair's swept into an elaborate updo that took Eduardo forty-five minutes and approximately seventeen bobby pins stabbing into my scalp to achieve.
My makeup is flawless. Smoky eyes, nude lips, the kind of contouring that makes my cheekbones look like they could cut glass.
And lastly, diamond studs—Pemberton family heirlooms gifted to me earlier—glint at my ears.
I look like the perfect Whitman daughter.
But what Mother doesn't know, what no one knows… is that beneath all this silk and sophistication, I'm wearing hiking boots.
The ones Chase bought me at Linda's General Store. The ones with broken-in leather that I'm damn proud of, smelling like mountain air and dirt.
Monique didn't hem the dress.
When I went back to the boutique on Thursday, she handed me the garment bag with a smile and a whispered "The boots will fit perfectly."
The gown's so long that the fabric completely hides my feet. To everyone else, it looks like I'm wearing the heels Mom selected.
But with every step across this marble floor, I feel the grip of the boots. The weight of them. The reminder that somewhere a short plane ride away, there's a tavern with sticky floors and terrible karaoke where people laugh because they want to, not because it's polite.
Where a man with sandy brown hair and hazel eyes probably isn't thinking about me at all anymore.
Because I chose this.
"Darling, I must say again, you look absolutely radiant."
Maxwell Pemberton appears at my elbow like a well-dressed ghost. His tuxedo is custom-tailored, his shoes polished to a mirror shine, his cologne expensive enough that I can taste the citrus notes in it.
He is… objectively handsome. Even if I hate to admit it.
He's tall enough that I have to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes, with dark hair that's been styled nicely. Silver threads at his temples like expensive tinsel, adding just enough distinction to suggest he's seasoned without being old.
His strong jawline has all the right angles to create masculine perfection, and when he smiles, his teeth are so flawlessly white they gleam like he's picked me up after starring in a dental commercial.
Maxwell is everything my parents ever wanted for me.
But to me… he's everything that makes my skin crawl.
"Thank you, Maxwell." I manage a smile that probably looks genuine to anyone who doesn't know me.
He offers his arm. "Shall we? Your mother mentioned you'd do me the honor of giving me your first dance."
I link my arm through his because refusing would cause a scene, and Whitmans don't cause scenes.
We glide into the middle of the ballroom, and I feel the weight of a hundred studying gazes.
"You've been missed at the club," Maxwell says smoothly. "Mother mentioned you've been traveling?"
"I have. Visiting a friend."
"Ah yes. The mountains, wasn't it?" His tone suggests mountains rank somewhere between sewage treatment and jury duty. "I'm sure that was... rustic."
Rustic.
I think about Chase's apartment with the creaky floors and the secondhand furniture and the drawer he labeled Weekend Occupancy Only. I still can't believe he cleared that just for me.
I think about Fox Hollow Lodge, where we soaked in a hot tub under the stars and he told me about his sister and his mother and the parts of himself he keeps hidden from everyone else.
And the night at Lone Pine Lookout, where firelight guided us together and he made love to me like I was something precious.
"Very rustic," I say.
Maxwell guides me through the crowd, stopping every few feet to shake hands with someone important. A state senator. A tech CEO. The head of some foundation I'm supposed to care about.
I smile. I nod. I say the right things at the right times.
This is what you're good at, a voice whispers in my head. This is what you were trained for.
After another round of dull conversations where I smile and agree way too quickly, a waiter offers champagne. I take a flute because my hands need something to do.
Across the ballroom, I catch sight of Mom holding court near the auction tables. She's wearing Chanel and pearls and the smile she reserves for people she needs something from.
When she spots me with Maxwell, her expression shifts. She smiles, actually smiles at me, the barest hint of pride flashing across her face.
Maxwell's hand settles at the small of my back, possessive in a way that makes my shoulders tense as he leads me away from a local politician and his wife.
"Piper, I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of bidding on the Napa Valley wine country package," he says. "Thought we might enjoy a weekend away. Get to know each other better."
The presumption in his voice makes my teeth clench.
A weekend away? With him?!
I think about what I'd be doing right now if I were in Stone River.
Saturday night. Seven o'clock.
Chase would probably be just getting ready to go out. He'd be wearing those jeans that hug his ass and a crisp fresh flannel, probably the one I tell him always brings out the green in his eyes.
We'd head to Timber Tavern, where Charlie would have our usual booth ready and he would 'accidentally' send over extra fries.
Knox and Travis would show up, right on cue as always, probably with some ridiculous story about something that happened at the station this week.
Jamie and Brooke might join us, and we'd all crowd into that booth that's definitely too small, laughing over burgers and beer that costs three dollars instead of thirty.
Later, Chase would walk me home through streets lit by fairy lights instead of chandeliers.
He'd kiss me against the door of his apartment, all heat and hunger, then he'd take me inside and press me against the cold tiles of his shower, water streaming over us while he worships every inch of my body like I'm the only thing in the world that matters.
Not because I'm elegant.
Not because I'm suitable.
Because I'm his.
"Piper?"
Maxwell's voice cuts through the memory.
"Sorry, what?"
"I asked if you'd like to dance now." He's already steering me toward the floor, where couples sway to a string quartet playing something classical and boring.
I let him lead because fighting would draw attention.
In the center of the flood, his hand finds my waist. Mine settles on his shoulder and I feel my heart sink lower in my chest.
We move in perfect synchronization because we've both been trained for this since childhood. Cotillion classes and debutante balls, then a thousand society functions where dancing is just another performance.
"You seem distracted tonight," Maxwell observes. "Are you okay?"
"Just tired. Long week at the hospital."
"Ah yes, your nursing." He says it the way someone might say your little hobby. "Mother mentioned you're quite dedicated."
"I enjoy helping people," I say.
"Of course." Maxwell pulls me slightly closer. "Though I imagine you'll step back from your career once we're married. Charity work is one thing, but a hospital environment can be so... draining. We don't want that when you'll have your hands full with our little ones."
Once we're married?! Little ones?!
WHAT THE FUCK?!
"Maxwell, I haven't—"
"I know, I know. I'm getting ahead of myself." His smile is indulgent. "But your mother and I have discussed it, and we both agree it's a sensible match. Our families have known each other for years. We have similar values, similar goals. We'd be quite compatible. Don't you think?"
Compatible.
Like a business merger. Like a strategic alliance. Like everything my parents ever wanted for me and nothing I want for myself.
The song ends but Maxwell keeps his hand on my waist. I can't remember if I answered his question or not, but I can feel my face burning hot.
"Piper? Are you sure you're okay?" He looks at me, brows creasing. "Shall we get some air maybe? The terrace has a lovely view of the city."
What he means is: Let's go somewhere private where I can kiss you and you'll feel obligated to reciprocate because that's what good girls do.
"Actually, I need to—"
"Piper, darling!"
Mom appears beside us with the precision of a heat-seeking missile, my well-dressed father trailing behind her like an expensive accessory.
"Maxwell, you look wonderful together." Mom's smile could cut diamonds. "Charles, doesn't our daughter look elegant?"
Father nods, his attention already drifting toward a cluster of businessmen by the bar. I haven't seen my dad in weeks, months maybe, but he's not the slightest bit interested in me.
"We were just discussing the Napa trip," Maxwell offers, hand sliding lower on my back, resting it just above my ass.
One inch lower, Maxwell, and you'll discover exactly how much damage a hiking boot can do to your crown jewels.