Chapter Four Dylan
The moment the words leave my mouth— If you were my wife, I’d protect you—for real—I know I’ve lost control.
And I don’t lose control.
Not in the boardroom. Not with my past. Not with my life.
But here, on a red carpet with Sunny pressed against my side, her breaths shaky and uneven, the cameras flashing like hungry wolves—I’ve done it. I’ve handed the media a weapon and held the blade to my own throat.
A ripple moves through the crowd—gasps, murmurs, a wildfire of curiosity igniting. Reporters surge, security shifts, red lights blink on microphones like tiny, all-seeing eyes.
Sunny trembles.
That’s the thing that matters.
Not the cameras. Not the headlines. Not the empire that could crumble over a soundbite.
She is shaking.
“Eyes on me,” I murmur, angling my body to block her from most of the lenses. I tilt my head, dipping low. “Breathe.”
“I am,” she whispers, though her pulse flutters visibly at her throat. “Mostly.”
She’s lying. I know it. But she stays upright. Stays beside me. She hasn’t run.
A stupid, dangerous part of me is… proud.
Security pushes a path for us, and I take the lead, keeping her anchored to my side until we reach the gilded double doors of the ballroom. The roar of outside noise dulls the second we step in—still loud, but muted, like moving underwater after an explosion.
Crystal chandeliers blaze overhead. A live quartet plays in the corner. Linen tables, champagne flutes, diamonds on throats—Manhattan’s elite pretending generosity makes them moral.
I am one of them.
And tonight, I hate that more than usual.
Inside, people notice us. They always do—but this time the attention is pointed, calculating. Smile-masks flicker and conversations shift. Investors. Board members. Rivals.
And every set of eyes drops to Sunny at my side.
I hear the shift in her breath—the instinctive shrink-response of someone used to being targeted. I slip my hand to the small of her back, subtle, but firm.
“I’ve got you,” I say low.
Her lashes flicker. She nods, tiny.
We move through tables, stopping where necessary. Every interaction is a minefield.
Connor Walsh—my partner, my sounding board—materializes beside us like he always does when things teeter on the edge of disaster.
He greets Sunny first. Smart man.
“Sunny Emerson, in the wild,” he says warmly. “I never thought the day would come.”
Her lips twitch. “Is that a good thing?”
“For us? Definitely. For the tabloids…” He tips his head toward the entrance. “Well.”
I resist the urge to snap at him. He means well. And he’s the only friend I have who actually says what he thinks.
“I assume you heard?” I say.
Connor snorts. “Oh, I heard. Pretty sure the entire eastern seaboard heard. What the hell, Knight?”
Sunny stiffens, mortified. I shift so she’s partially behind me, like her humiliation is something I can physically block.
“Drop it,” I warn quietly.
Connor studies me… then his expression changes. Just a shade. A widening of the eyes most people would miss.
He knows.
He sees what I didn’t want him to see.
“We’ll talk later,” he says. Then he turns to Sunny. “If he drags you into a PR nightmare and needs rescuing, blink twice. I’ll shove him into the nearest fountain.”
Sunny laughs—small, breathy, but real.
And the tension in my chest loosens by a fraction.
A bell chimes. People drift toward the stage.
I take Sunny’s seat for her, pulling out the chair. She hesitates before sitting—as if unsure she’s allowed.
It guts me.
“You belong here,” I say under my breath. “With me.”
Her gaze snaps to mine. For a moment, it’s just us. No cameras. No exes. No danger.
Then—
“Ladies and gentlemen!”
The emcee launches into his speech about children’s futures, charity initiatives, numbers I’ve personally written checks to create. I should hear all of it.
I hear none of it.
What I hear is my own voice on repeat:
If you were my wife…
What I see is Sunny’s ex—Hands on her arms. Bruises he left. Messages I read. Threats like smoke.
She shifts beside me, fingers fidgeting with her napkin.
“You okay?” I murmur.
“Mostly,” she says again. She doesn’t look at me. “I just… don’t want to ruin anything.”
“You couldn’t ruin anything.”
“You don’t know that.”
I lean closer. “I know you.”
Her gaze lifts. And God help me, the truth is—I do. More than I should.
Halfway through dinner, my focus shatters completely when I spot Olivia Hart.
Tall. Chic. Cold smile.
My biggest mistake wearing lipstick.
She’s watching Sunny.
And enjoying this.
She rises from her table and glides toward us. Sunny notices her approach and stiffens instinctively.
I move a fraction closer to Sunny, shoulders tightening.
Olivia reaches us, wine glass in hand, eyes dripping condescension.
“Well,” she purrs. “Dylan Knight. City’s most elusive bachelor… suddenly not so elusive.”
Sunny’s hand curls in her lap, knuckles whitening.
Olivia gives her a slow, appraising look. “And this must be the reason you vanished off the radar recently. How… darling.”
I feel Sunny shrink beside me, like she’s folding into herself to take up less space. That won’t happen. Not here.
“Olivia,” I say, voice smooth like knives. “Walk away.”
Her brows arch. “That’s how you greet someone you once—”
I cut her off with a look sharp enough to slice bone.
But she leans in anyway, lowering her voice—enough that only I hear:
“She’ll never survive your world, Dylan. And knowing you… you won’t survive hers.”
A flash of panic—irrational, unwelcome—flares through me.
Sunny. Breakable and brave. Warm enough to thaw a man like me.
What if Olivia’s right—
No. I shove the thought down.
“Last warning,” I say.
Olivia smiles like she’s already won and floats away.
Sunny exhales shakily. “That was… intense.”
“She’s irrelevant,” I say. “Don’t waste a breath on her.”
Sunny doesn’t respond.
But her silence feels like a bruise.
Before I can unpack it—
Spotlights swivel. Cameras rise. A voice booms:
“And now, we applaud the newly engaged couple—Dylan Knight and Sunny Emerson!”
Applause erupts.
A spotlight slams onto our table.
The room turns. Stares. Smiles sharpen.
Sunny’s fork slips from her fingers and clatters against her plate.
My blood goes hot.
I stand. Very slowly.
I look toward the stage—at the host smiling, waiting for a wave. A confirmation. A performance.
And I realize—Someone told them. Someone fed them that rumor.
Live. Public. Irreversible.
Sunny’s wide eyes lift toward mine.
“What do we do?” she whispers.
Under the glare of a hundred cameras—I take her hand.
“We make it believable.”