Chapter 10
Pauline
The dress arrived Friday afternoon—too early, too deliberate, like it had been waiting for me.
I wasn’t expecting it so soon. Or for it to feel like an event—the delivery person in a crisp uniform, the box itself substantial and cream-colored with the kind of weight that whispered expensive before you even lifted the lid.
I signed for it with ink-stained fingers and carried it inside like it might explode.
It’s just a dress, I told myself. Just fabric. Just thread. Nothing that should make my pulse trip over itself.
I lifted the lid.
Midnight-blue silk spilled out—liquid, luminous, like someone had bottled the night and poured it into the box. I touched it before I could stop myself, and the fabric slid through my fingers like cool water.
It was beautiful. Impossibly beautiful—the kind of dress that didn’t just change what you wore but changed who you were when you wore it. Simple in its cut, elegant in its lines, with a neckline that was tasteful and a back that dipped just low enough to make a statement.
And the color…
Something in my chest tightened. Jack had always loved me in blue. Said it made me look like I was lit from the inside. He’d told me once that it made my skin luminous, and brought out something in my eyes he couldn’t look away from.
I told myself that it was probably just a coincidence. He probably didn’t even pick it himself. He had assistants and stylists for this. People who choose dresses for women he takes to galas.
The thought should have been comforting. Instead, it left something hollow in my chest.
Beneath the dress were shoes to match—delicate heels in the same deep blue—and a clutch, and a handwritten note in bold script that I recognized immediately.
6:30PM. Don’t be late.
No signature. He didn’t need one.
I pressed my fingers against the words and tried to ignore the way my heart was racing.
This was a terrible idea. I had known it was a terrible idea the moment I agreed to it. But it was too late to back out now, and some treacherous part of me didn’t want to.
At 6:25, I was standing in front of my mirror, second-guessing every choice I’d made in my entire life.
The dress fit like it had been made for me. The heels added three inches to my height and approximately five hundred percent to my anxiety.
I’d done my makeup, and my hair was twisted up in a style I’d learned from YouTube tutorials at two in the morning when I couldn’t sleep.
I looked… different. Like a version of myself I’d never met. Someone who belonged at galas and charity events and on the arm of a billionaire.
A car engine purred outside. I grabbed my clutch, took one last breath, and opened my door.
Candy was on her porch watering a plant that looked like it had given up on life weeks ago. She glanced up as I stepped out—and promptly dropped the watering can.
“Holy shit.” Her jaw actually dropped. “Wells. What the hell. You look like a movie star!”
“It’s just a dress,” I said. Heat crawled up my neck. Compliments always felt like clothes that didn’t quite fit.
“That is not just a dress. That is a—” She let out a low whistle, eyes moving from me to the sleek black car idling at the curb. “And that is not just a ride. Girl. What is happening right now?”
Meatball let out a low bark, like he sensed I was abandoning him for the evening.
“Don’t even start,” I told the dog, pointing a warning finger at him. “We’re still not that close yet.”
“He doesn’t think so,” Candy grinned. “Have fun. Try not to do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“What wouldn’t you do?”
The car door opened. Jack stepped out.
Candy’s eyes went wide. Her mouth formed a small O.
She looked at Jack—all six-plus feet of him in that perfectly tailored tuxedo—then back at me, then back at Jack, like she was watching a tennis match she couldn’t quite believe was real.
“Okay, new answer,” she said faintly. “Do everything. Do all of it. Multiple times.”
“Candy—”
“Go. Before I embarrass you further.” She was already backing toward her door, fanning herself with one hand. “Jesus Christ, Wells. You’ve been holding out on me.”
I walked to the car with my face burning and Candy’s cackle following me down the sidewalk.
Jack was standing beside the car, waiting—no, watching. Like the world had narrowed to the length of my walk down the sidewalk.
Not inside like a normal person. Watching me walk toward him with an expression that made my pulse stutter and my mouth go dry.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just let his gaze travel over me, slow and deliberate, from the careful twist of my hair down to the dress and heels.
Then back up again. I felt it like a physical touch, that look. It traced the neckline of my dress, the curve of my waist, the bare skin of my shoulders.
My cheeks burned even hotter.
“Pauline.” His voice came out rough, he cleared his throat, tried again. “You look…” His voice caught. He tried again.
I waited for the smirk. The clever comment. Something that would let me roll my eyes and remember why I needed to keep my walls up.
It didn’t come.
“Gorgeous,” he finally said. “You look absolutely gorgeous.” No smirk. No teasing. Just truth.
“Don’t try to charm me, it won’t work,”
His mouth curved. “I’m just saying the truth, you look beautiful. Like always.”
Against my will, the butterflies in my stomach multiplied. “Let’s go,” I cleared my throat, before I would burn myself out of this dress.
He opened the passenger door and I got in the car. He got in himself and I didn’t look in his direction until my heart stopped racing.
It took longer than I wanted to admit.
The gala was held in a mansion that looked like old money had carved it from marble and dared anyone to question its taste.
Crystal chandeliers dripped from ceilings so high I couldn’t see where they ended. Marble floors gleamed beneath my heels. Women glided past in designer gowns, their necks and wrists heavy with diamonds that caught the light and scattered it into rainbows.
I was dressed like them, but I still felt like an imposter the moment I stepped inside.
Everyone here actually belonged. They moved through the space with the ease of people who had grown up in rooms like this. I was overly conscious of every glance, every pair of eyes that lingered on my face before sliding away.
Jack stayed close. His hand found the small of my back, warm and steady through the thin silk of my dress. The touch shouldn’t have grounded me as much as it did.
“Breathe,” he murmured, his mouth close to my ear. “You look like you’re calculating escape routes.”
“You can tell?”
“The terrace is through those doors if you need air.” His thumb traced a small circle against my spine. “But you won’t need it. You belong here,” he murmured, like it was a fact he could will into existence.
“That’s a beautiful lie.”
“It’s not a lie.” His voice was quiet, serious. “You outshine every person in this room. You just don’t see it yet.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. So I said nothing, and let him guide me deeper into the glittering crowd.
I saw Simon Tucker across the room.
Tall, dark-haired, instantly recognizable from weeks of research. The man whose story could make my career, standing twenty feet away like fate was playing some kind of joke on me.
Jack followed my gaze. “Would you like an introduction?”
My heart was pounding. I’d told myself I wanted to earn this on my own, that accepting his help would feel too much like owing him something. But Simon Tucker was right there.
“Yes,” I said. “Please.”
We crossed the room together, and Simon turned as we approached, his expression warming slightly when he recognized Jack.
“Jack.” His voice held genuine welcome. “I didn’t expect you tonight.”
“Last minute decision.” Jack’s hand pressed warm against my back as he guided me forward. “Simon, this is Pauline Wells. Pauline, Simon Tucker.”
Simon’s eyes moved to me with something resembling curiosity.
He shared a look with Jack, I didn’t know what they were communicating but they were definitely discussing me right in my presence.
And for some reason I felt slightly anxious, a little worried what his friend might think about me—it shouldn’t concern me.
I recognized the woman at his side immediately.
Hannah Tucker. I’d seen her once in Vegas, but also in photographs in various magazines—usually accompanying articles about philanthropy. She also used to be engaged to Michael Ashford.
She was striking, blonde hair gleaming in the chandelier light, eyes sharp with intelligence.
“Hannah Tucker,” I said, extending my hand. “I’ve been wanting to meet you—officially, I mean, since we’ve technically met before.”
Her eyebrows rose, a smile playing at her lips. “Should I be worried?” she asked, but her eyes were already cataloging me—sharp, assessing, amused.
“Only if you have secrets worth investigating.” I let my own smile linger, genuinely curious about the woman who’d captured Simon Tucker’s attention so completely.
“Which, given the circumstances, I imagine you do.”
Simon’s arm tightened around Hannah’s waist—the movement was subtle, instinctive, protective. I noticed the way Hannah leaned into it rather than pulling away, the way her body seemed to curve toward his without conscious thought.
“Every family has secrets, Ms. Wells,” Hannah said, her voice light but her eyes still sharp. “Some are just better at hiding them than others.”
She was good. Polished but not plastic, warm but not naive. I respected that.
“Call me Pauline.” I tilted my head, studying her. “And I suspect you’re better at hiding them than most.”
It was my journalism instinct speaking, Jack cleared his throat beside me. “We should let you two enjoy the evening. I’m sure you have plenty of people to convince.”
Simon’s mouth curved. “That obvious?”
“Only to someone who’s spent years reading people professionally.” Jack’s smile took the sting out of the observation. “You’re doing fine. Better than fine, actually.”