Chapter 52
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
MURPHY
The bow tie is a lost cause.
I scowl at it in the mirror, fingers fumbling like they’ve never tied a knot in their life. It looks less James Bond and more strangled pigeon. Behind me, Sophie lounges on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, wearing one of my hoodies and a dangerously smug expression.
“You know, there are YouTube tutorials for that. Or girlfriends with superior motor skills.”
I give her a look through the mirror. “You volunteering, or just mocking from the sidelines?”
She saunters over, bare legs all but stealing my focus, and takes the silk tie from my hands with a roll of her eyes. Her fingers are quick and confident as she works, pulling the knot into place with a flourish.
“There,” she says, smoothing it down. “Now you only look mildly like a twat.”
I catch her wrist before she pulls away, tugging her close. “You love it.”
“I love you,” she corrects, brushing imaginary lint off my lapel. “Even when you’re being all grumbly about black-tie events.”
“’Cause they’re a nightmare,” I mutter. “Tiny food, forced smiles, and that one woman who always corners me about my skincare routine as though I’m some sort of male beauty guru.”
Sophie laughs, slipping her arms around my waist. “To be fair, your skin is suspiciously nice.”
“Genetics. And maybe a little toner.”
She grins, and I lean down to kiss her, slow and greedy, drawing her in until she sighs against my mouth. The kind of kiss that promises later. When the tux is off and the real fun begins.
But for now, there’s the charity gala.
The venue is full of polished glass, designer dresses, and enough champagne to float a Zamboni. I’ve barely stepped in when I’m swept up by Layla, who does a quick scan of my outfit like she’s inspecting for lint and potential scandal.
“You clean up well, Murph. Try not to scare the investors.”
“No promises,” I mutter, pasting on a smile.
I make the rounds, shaking hands, nodding politely, pretending to understand corporate jargon while sipping something fizzy I can’t pronounce.
Sophie would be brilliant at this. Warm, clever, good at charming the old-money types.
Without her, I feel like a half-functioning mannequin in a room full of sharks.
I’m halfway through a conversation about something called a vertical integration strategy when I see her.
Tabloid Girl.
Real name; Chloe. Occupation; journalist with a suspicious habit of being wherever the team’s gossip is hottest. She’s dressed in a plunging red number tonight, all sharp angles and too-white teeth, and she’s already beelining straight for me, hips swinging as if she’s on a catwalk.
“Samuel Murphy,” she purrs, sliding in beside me before I can make a graceful escape. “Looking positively edible.”
“Evening, Chloe,” I say, trying for civil but disinterested.
She doesn’t take the hint. One manicured hand finds my forearm, her nails tracing idle circles on my sleeve. “Still single?”
I ease back a fraction, keeping my tone light. “Taken.”
She gasps dramatically. “No. Don’t tell me some lucky girl has finally managed to tie you down.”
“More like I sprinted into it willingly.”
Chloe laughs like I’ve told a joke, then leans in, breath hot against my ear. “She must be very secure, letting you loose in a room like this.”
I stiffen. Her perfume hits like a glitter bomb; sweet, cloying, expensive. She’s pressed against my side now, arm draped across mine, red lips practically brushing my cheek. To anyone watching, we look intimate.
I clear my throat. “Chloe,”
“You remember that night in Brighton?” she whispers, fingers now grazing my lapel as if she’s straightening it. “You were drunk, I was bored…”
“I also remember saying it was a mistake the next morning,” I cut in, voice clipped. “And I’m in a relationship now.”
“But your fans wouldn’t hate a reunion pic,” she murmurs, pressing her body just a little closer. “You’ve always been good for clicks.”
Across the room, Layla throws me a look, half curious, half disapproving. Great.
“I’m not interested in being anyone’s clickbait,” I mutter, stepping back to reclaim a bit of space. Chloe’s hand lingers on my chest for a beat too long before she finally lets it fall.
“Pity,” she pouts. “We looked good together. Just saying.”
She twirls a strand of hair and offers one last lingering glance before slinking off toward the bar, no doubt to hunt for someone else with a recognisable face and a weak spot for flattery.
I exhale slowly. Jesus.
My phone buzzes.
Sophie: How’s it going? Drowning in canapés and hedge fund bros?
Murphy: One overly enthusiastic “fan” down. Five sponsor convos to go. Wish you were here.
Sophie: I’d be making you behave.
Murphy: That’s why I want you here.
Sophie: That, or you just want me in that dress I tried on last week.
Murphy: Also true.
I grin at my screen, picturing her in it; low back, high slit, the kind of dress that would’ve made every bloke here choke on his pinot noir.
Chloe’s lipstick smudge is still faintly visible on my jacket.
Perfect.
Layla reappears, shepherding me toward a new circle of donors. I charm. I nod. I talk about community outreach and youth programs like I eat, sleep, and breathe grassroots hockey. I give them my best smile, even as my skin still crawls from that little performance.
Samuel Murphy and a mystery girl. That’s what the caption would read tomorrow if Chloe had her phone out.
And Sophie… God.
Another hour passes. By the time I finally escape to the balcony for air, I’m done.
The city stretches out below, lights winking like scattered stars. I pull out my phone again.
Murphy: I deserve a medal. Or at least a naked girlfriend when I get home.
Sophie: Brave little soldier. I’ll run you a bath and sit on the edge looking scandalous. Fair?
Murphy: I love you more than tiny desserts and overpriced champagne.
Sophie: That’s true romance.
A laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it. She grounds me. Makes this whole pretence bearable. Even though she’s not here, I feel her with me, in my messages, in the scent of her on my skin, in the promise of later.
And that’s the real win of the night.