Chapter Seven Sunny
I’ve never felt more like an imposter in my life.
Brunch with Manhattan socialites looks nothing like brunch in the real world. There are no pancakes. No syrup. No children smashing blueberries into their hair. There are only champagne flutes, tiny forks, and women in dresses that could pay off my student loans.
Dylan walks beside me like he was born for this. He holds himself like a fortress—untouchable, immovable, the man every camera wants and every person watches. His hand rests lightly at my lower back, guiding me through the maze of white linen tables and sharp stares.
“You’re doing fine,” he murmurs without looking at me.
“That makes one of us,” I mutter, gripping the strap of my purse like it might keep me upright.
We’re shown to a table that overlooks the bay. Dylan pulls out my chair for me—like I’m someone who deserves that—and I sit, heart rattling inside my ribs.
Across from us sits a woman with perfectly sculpted cheekbones and a diamond necklace big enough to require its own insurance policy.
“So,” she says, dragging out the word as she lifts her champagne. “You’re the one who finally tamed him.”
My brain stutters. Tamed?
Dylan stiffens beside me. “Charlene,” he says, voice cool as marble.
“What?” She waves a dismissive hand. “Everyone in this city knows Dylan Knight can’t commit to anything except quarterly earnings.”
Laughter ripples around the table. My cheeks heat.
I want to disappear. I want to say something. I want to shrink.
I sit. I breathe. I smile. I break.
After ten minutes of shallow questions and too-loud laughter, I excuse myself and escape toward the balcony, desperate for air.
I brace my hands on the railing and inhale salt and wind. The sea doesn’t judge me. The sea doesn’t care if I’m not polished enough or rich enough or enough.
I try not to think about the women at that table. The sparkle in their eyes when I faltered. The quiet, hungry type of cruelty I recognize from the hallways of my childhood school.
You’re weird. You don’t belong. Sit smaller. Speak quieter.
A tear escapes before I can stop it. I swipe it away fast. I won’t fall apart here.
Not where Dylan could see.
Not where anyone could.
But of course—that’s exactly when his reflection appears behind mine in the glass.
“You ran,” he says.
“I excused myself,” I correct, voice airy, pretending I’m fine.
His eyes narrow. “You ran.”
I grip the railing harder. “They were talking about you. I didn’t want to make it worse.”
There’s a pause—long enough that I wonder if I messed up again.
Then—quietly:
“They were talking about you.”
I blink. “What?”
“That room is full of people who’ve known me for a decade. You are the only new variable. Attention always follows the anomaly.”
“I don’t want attention,” I whisper.
“I know.”
There’s something strange in his tone. Something soft, hidden beneath steel.
“You look like you’re waiting to be kicked,” he says after a beat.
I flinch. The truth tastes like metal.
He steps closer—not touching, but near enough that his presence wraps around me like a second coat. “You don’t have to.”
I swallow. “You can’t promise that.”
“No,” he says. “But I can make damn sure you aren’t alone when it happens.”
A laugh tremors through me—small, almost hysterical. “That’s…morbidly comforting.”
He almost smiles. Almost.
We return to the table because appearances matter. Because “the fiancée” of Dylan Knight doesn’t vanish without consequence.
This time, when Charlene leans forward and says:
“So, Sunny, what do you do?”
I lift my chin.
“I teach preschool,” I say. “I build tiny humans into good people. I manage thirty toddlers armed with crayons. Compared to that, this”—I gesture at the table, the skyline, the ocean—“is easy.”
The table goes silent. Then—one woman laughs. Another smiles. Someone murmurs, “Good answer.”
But it’s Dylan’s expression that steals my breath.
Pride. Real. Undeniable. Like he didn’t expect me to open fire and win.
Under the table, his hand brushes mine—barely there—an unspoken I see you.
Half an hour later, brunch is winding down when flashes catch my eye.
A photographer stands on the pier pointing a long-lens camera directly at us.
I freeze. “Dylan…”
“I see him,” he mutters, already pulling out his phone.
The waiter who served us earlier returns—this time holding a newspaper, breathless.
“You’ll want to see this,” he says.
Dylan snatches it.
At first I read only the bold headline:
BAD BOY BILLIONAIRE TAMES WILD CHILD SUNNY
Engagement Scandal Shakes Manhattan Elite
My stomach drops into my shoes.
Below it—an image. Me. Dylan. His hand on my waist outside the gala. My face turned up toward him like I’m already in love.
Heat crashes over me—shame, fear, something else I don’t want to name.
Every pair of eyes at the table shifts toward me.
Charlene smirks. Dylan goes still. The world tilts.
I grip the edge of the table to stay upright.
“Dylan,” I whisper. “What do we do—”
Because while I stare at the ink, the headline shifts in my mind, becomes a whisper I’ve heard before, from someone else—
No one wants you. You're nothing without me.
I shake it off—but not fast enough.
Tears burn my eyes.
And just as Dylan stands—shoulders squared like a man prepared for war—my phone vibrates inside his jacket pocket, where he still hasn’t given it back.
He pulls it out.
Reads the screen.
Then—very slowly—his expression changes.
Hunger. Rage. Something territorial and terrifying.
He turns the phone so I can see.
A text message.
Trevor: Cute headline. Dress her up all you want. I know what she really is.
My breath disappears.
And Dylan’s voice—low, lethal—rips through the still air:
“I’m done letting him breathe.”