Chapter 7
Graham
A tuxedo is essentially a straightjacket made of wool and pretension.
It is designed to restrict movement, enforce posture, and signal to the world that you have enough disposable income to spend three thousand dollars on a garment you will wear twice a year to eat rubbery chicken and listen to old men bloviate about "legacy."
Usually, I hated the Sterling Vale Founders’ Ball. It was a mandatory event for the team captain—a night of hand-shaking, fake-smiling, and dodging boosters who wanted to know if my shoulder was really okay or if they should hedge their bets on the betting apps.
Tonight, however, I found myself standing in front of the mirror in the master bath, adjusting my cufflinks with a strange, buzzing energy in my chest that felt suspiciously like anticipation.
I checked my watch. 6:45 PM.
Faye was running late. Of course she was. Chaos doesn't operate on a schedule.
I walked out into the living room. The apartment was dim, the city lights below twinkling like a reflection of the stars above. I poured a glass of water—no alcohol tonight, I needed my wits sharp—and leaned against the island, waiting.
I heard the door to the guest room open.
I set the glass down.
"Okay," Faye’s voice floated down the hallway. "Before I come out, you have to promise not to make any comments about the slit. It’s architectural."
"I make no promises regarding structural engineering," I called back.
"I’m serious, Graham. This dress cost more than my first semester of tuition, and it was the only thing I managed to save from the dorms before the lockout."
She stepped into the light.
The air left my lungs. It didn't just leave; it was forcibly evicted.
Faye Allister was always beautiful. That was a given. She was vibrant, loud, and impossible to ignore. But tonight… tonight she was a weapon.
The dress was gold. Not a soft, subtle champagne, but a molten, metallic gold that looked like it had been poured over her body.
It was backless, sleeveless, and held up by nothing but physics and prayer.
And the slit she had warned me about went all the way up her left thigh, stopping dangerously close to her hip.
She had pulled her hair up, leaving loose, blonde tendrils framing her face. Her makeup was sharp—gold eyelids, dark liner, and that berry lip stain I had told her not to wear, which she had naturally worn anyway just to spite me.
She stopped in the center of the room, smoothing her hands over her hips. She looked unsure. Vulnerable.
"Well?" she asked, biting her lip. "Is it too much? Cleo said I look like an Oscar statue that came to life and decided to ruin someone’s marriage."
I walked toward her. I couldn't help myself. I needed to be closer. I needed to see if she was real.
"Cleo is wrong," I said, my voice rougher than I intended.
Faye flinched slightly. "Oh. Is it bad? I can change. I have a black—"
"You look like a queen," I interrupted, stopping a foot away from her.
Her eyes widened. A flush crept up her neck, clashing beautifully with the gold.
"A queen?" she teased, recovering her composure. "That’s high praise coming from the Governor. I thought you preferred your subjects humble."
"There is nothing humble about you, Faye. And I wouldn't want there to be."
I reached out and took her hand. Her skin was soft, warm. I brought her knuckles to my lips, holding her gaze. It was an old-fashioned gesture, something my mother had taught me before she vanished, but it felt right.
"You look dangerous," I murmured against her skin.
"Good," she whispered, her breath hitching. "Because I feel like I’m walking into a lion’s den tonight."
"Why?"
"My father will be there."
I stiffened. I hadn't realized Silas was attending. Usually, he sent a proxy.
"He’s coming?"
"He’s receiving the 'Alumni of the Decade' award," she said, her voice dripping with bitterness. "Irony is dead."
I squeezed her hand. "Then we give him a show."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," I said, stepping closer and tucking her arm through mine, pulling her flush against my side, "we walk in there together. We stand together. And we remind him that you didn't just survive his little financial siege—you thrived."
She looked up at me, her hazel eyes searching mine. "You'd do that? Provoke him publicly?"
"I told you," I said, leading her toward the door. "I’m done fighting you. Now, I fight for you. Besides..." I smirked, glancing down at her leg exposed by the slit. "I like my odds with you on my side. You’re distracting."
She laughed, a genuine, bright sound that cut through the tension.
"Let’s go break some hearts, Vane."
The Founders’ Ball was held in the Grand Hall of the Student Union, a gothic revival monstrosity that had been transformed into a glittering cavern of crystals, white roses, and old money.
The moment we stepped out of the black town car I’d hired (driving the Rover in a tux felt wrong), the cameras flashed.
Usually, I ignored them. I walked past the student press and the local Aspen society photographers with my head down, a ghost in a suit.
Tonight, I stopped.
I felt Faye tense up beside me. Her grip on my arm tightened.
"Breathe," I whispered in her ear. "You own this place. Remember?"
She inhaled sharply, lifted her chin, and flashed a smile that was pure, high-wattage Allister charm.
We posed. I placed my hand on the small of her back—skin on skin, thanks to the dress—and felt the heat of her burn through my palm. I pulled her closer, staking a claim so obvious that even the blindest photographer couldn't miss it.
Click. Click. Click.
"Graham! Faye! Over here!"
"Is it true you're living together?"
"Graham, comment on the shoulder rumors?"
I ignored the questions, guiding Faye up the stairs and into the venue.
Inside, the air was thick with expensive perfume and the low hum of gossip. It was a sea of black tuxedos and designer gowns. I spotted the Dean, the Mayor, and half the Board of Trustees within seconds.
"Drink," Faye commanded. "I need champagne immediately."
I signaled a waiter. He brought a tray. Faye took a flute. I took a sparkling water.
"You're not drinking?" she asked, taking a sip.
"Designated driver. And designated bodyguard."
"I don't need a bodyguard."
"Look at three o'clock."
She subtly shifted her gaze.
Standing near the ice sculpture were three of the team boosters—men who had made their fortunes in oil and tech and spent it buying eighteen-year-old athletes.
They were staring at Faye. Not with respect.
With calculation. They were looking at her like she was a distressed asset they could acquire cheap now that her stock had dropped.
Faye’s jaw tightened.
"Vultures," she hissed.
"Stay close to me," I murmured, sliding my hand from her back to her waist. "We do one lap. Shake the hands. Smile at the donors. Then we find a table in the back and mock everyone."
"Deal."
We moved through the room. It was effortless.
That was the surprise. I expected it to be work. I expected to have to drag her, or for her to pull me into chaotic conversations I didn't want to have.
Instead, we were a machine.
When a booster asked about my stats, Faye charmed him with a joke about how I treated the puck like a geometry problem.
When a professor’s wife asked Faye about her "little art hobby," I cut in and spoke about the gallery in Paris like it was a done deal, elevating her from 'student' to 'international artist' in three sentences.
We moved in sync. We spoke a language of subtle touches and shared glances.
At one point, Mrs. Vanderbilt, the matriarch of the Aspen historical society, cornered us.
"Graham," she cooed, clutching her pearls. "And Faye. My goodness. I haven't seen you two together since... well, ever. I heard about the trouble with Silas, dear. Are you managing?"
It was a dig. A polite, society-lady way of asking if she was homeless.
Faye opened her mouth to deliver a biting retort, but I squeezed her waist.
"Faye is doing wonderfully," I said smoothly. "Actually, she’s been instrumental in my season. I tend to get too focused on the game; she reminds me there’s a world outside the rink. She’s... grounding."
Faye looked up at me, surprise softening her features.
Mrs. Vanderbilt blinked. "Oh. How... lovely. You make a striking pair."
"Thank you," I said. "Now, if you’ll excuse us, I promised Faye a dance."
I steered her away toward the dance floor.
"Grounding?" Faye whispered, leaning into me. "You called me grounding? I thought I was chaos."
"You are," I said, turning her into my arms as the band began a slow, jazz standard. "But maybe I needed a little chaos to keep my feet on the earth."
We danced.
I wasn't a dancer. I moved with efficiency, not flair. But with Faye, it was easy. She was light in my arms. She rested her hand on my shoulder—the injured one—but her touch was so feather-light it caused no pain.
We were surrounded by people, but it felt like we were in a bubble. The noise of the gala faded into a dull roar.
"You're good at this," she murmured, looking at my bowtie.
"Dancing?"
"Lying. Pretending we're this... power couple."
I looked down at her. The gold dress shimmered under the chandeliers. Her eyes were bright, reflecting the lights.
"Who says I'm pretending?"
Her breath hitched. She looked up, searching my face.
"Graham..."
"Well, well. Isn't this a touching domestic tableau."
The bubble popped.
Silas Allister was standing at the edge of the dance floor.
He looked exactly like Faye, if you stripped away the warmth and replaced it with cold steel. Same eyes. Same sharp bone structure. He was wearing a tuxedo that probably cost more than my car, and he was holding a scotch like a weapon.
Faye stiffened in my arms. I felt the tremor run through her.
I didn't let go. I pulled her closer, turning slightly so my shoulder blocked her from him.
"Mr. Allister," I said. My voice was the Governor’s voice. Cold. Authoritative. "Congratulations on the award."
Silas ignored me. He looked straight at his daughter.