Chapter 6
She yanked another dress off the rack, its sequins catching the harsh fluorescent lighting of the boutique. “This one’s shiny?” she said weakly, holding it up for Lucy’s inspection.
Lucy recoiled like the dress had insulted her. “Unless you’re planning to blind everyone at the gala, no. Hard pass.”
Devney shoved it back onto the overcrowded rack with a groan.
“Why are we doing this today?” Lucy asked. “The gala is literally tonight.”
“I’ve been busy. With work. With fake-fiancée-ing. With managing the slow unraveling of my mental stability. Take your pick.”
Lucy plopped onto a nearby velvet pouf, crossing her legs and propping her chin on her hand like she was watching a live rom-com train wreck.
“This is your karma for agreeing to get fake-engaged to your boss. Seriously, Dev, what were you thinking? ‘Oh sure, Ronan Wilder, my emotionally constipated billionaire boss, needs a fiancée—sounds fun!’”
“First,” she said, rifling through another rack without looking at her friend, “he’s not emotionally constipated. He’s selectively expressive.”
“Selective is right,” Lucy said with a snort. “He expresses himself to spreadsheets and quarterly reports, not humans.”
“Second,” she said, ignoring the jab, “this is a strategic partnership, okay? I help him close this deal with the Beauchamps, and he doesn’t fire me for accidentally CC’ing his mother on the email about her cat. Everybody wins.”
“Strategic partnership. You realize how bananas that sounds, right?”
“Yes, but it’s well-dressed bananas. Or at least it will be if we find me a dress,” she said, pulling a slinky black gown from the rack. Before Lucy could protest, she disappeared into the fitting room.
A minute later, she emerged, the black gown turning her reflection in the mirror into an image out of a red-carpet event. The fabric hugged her figure, the neckline plunging enough to be daring without straying into scandalous territory.
“Wow,” Lucy said, sitting up straighter. “Okay, I take it back. That’s not bananas. That’s an entire gourmet banana sundae, top shelf.”
“Right?” She twirled, the hem swishing. “Who knew I had this in me?”
“Everyone except you,” Lucy said, deadpan. Then her eyes narrowed, and she pointed at Devney’s bare left hand. “Wait. What are you doing for a ring? Please don’t tell me Ronan sprung for a monstrosity shaped like a stock portfolio.”
“Funny you should mention that,” she said, digging into her purse. After a few seconds of rummaging, she pulled out a garish sunflower-shaped ring.
“Ta-da!” she said, sliding it onto her finger with a showy little wave. “Problem solved.”
Yellow stones surrounded a cluster of white ones in the center, with brown gems forming the petals. It was loud. It was clunky. It was hideous. It was her.
Lucy stared, then doubled over laughing so hard she nearly rolled off the pouf. “You cannot be serious. That thing looks like you mugged a kindergartener at craft time.”
“Hey, desperate times call for desperate accessories,” she said, admiring the ring. “Besides, it’s got character. And until Mr. Billionaire decides otherwise, this is as good as it gets.”
“Good luck explaining that to the Beauchamps,” Lucy said.
Two hours later, Devney ran a hand over the front of her gown in her tiny apartment’s entryway. She glanced at the clock, wondering if Ronan had gotten lost between his penthouse and her decidedly less glamorous building. As she debated texting him, a sharp knock echoed at the door.
“It’s time,” she said softly, taking a deep breath and opening the door.
He exuded his usual unruffled elegance, the crisp lines of his flawlessly tailored black tuxedo emphasizing his composed presence.
Yet for a man who prided himself on restraint, his composure wavered as his eyes swept over her.
His focus lingered on her face before drifting downward, tracing the graceful silhouette of her gown.
His expression gentled for an instant—unguarded, rising and fading in a breath.
“Well?” she asked, fidgeting as the silence dragged on.
“Acceptable,” he said at last, though the faint roughness in his voice betrayed him.
“Wow, calm down with the compliments,” she said, stepping aside to let him in. His attention dipped to her left hand.
“Is that…” His eyes narrowed, gears visibly turning as he pointed at the sunflower ring like it might sprout legs and run. “Is that all you have?”
“You don’t pay me enough to purchase priceless baubles,” she said breezily, holding up her hand to admire the ring like it belonged in a museum. “This is the best I’ve got—fifteen ninety-nine at the corner drugstore.”
“Incredible,” he said. Yet as his eyes returned to her, his expression softened—a shift, barely perceptible, but there.
“It’ll have to do,” he said finally, his voice low and resigned.
He straightened his jacket, then wordlessly held out her coat.
She slid into it, and for a second, he didn’t let go, his hands resting heavily on her shoulders as they both stared at their reflections in the mirror.
It was a silent acknowledgement of the charade they were about to walk into.
He glanced at the door and said, “Let’s go. ”
The ballroom was a dazzling spectacle, awash with twinkling chandeliers, gleaming champagne flutes, and guests who seemed to have been born in designer couture. She adjusted her hair for the fifth time, fingers lingering as she tried to find an expression that felt believable.
The sunflower ring flashed defiantly under the lights, a bold statement of rebellion sparkling on her finger.
“Relax,” he said quietly beside her, his tone even but low enough that only she could hear it. “You’re fidgeting.”
“Some of us don’t spend our evenings parading through events like this,” she said, tilting her head just enough to maintain a pleasant expression for the passing couples who glanced their way.
“Keep your expression pleasant,” he said, his lips barely moving. He’d been doing that all night—talking without breaking his polished exterior. It was maddeningly effective. “And remember, you’re madly in love with me.”
“Madly,” she said, taking a sip of her champagne.
The bubbles fizzed against her tongue, which was nice because it distracted her from how close his arm was to hers.
He kept her near his side all evening, his hand resting on the small of her back whenever anyone approached.
It was so effortless she could believe he didn’t hate every second of this.
“Here they come,” he said suddenly, his voice tightening. His attention flicked toward an elegant couple weaving through the crowd. Even before they reached them, she knew who they were.
Eleanor Beauchamp moved with effortless poise, her sharp eyes fixed on them, intense, missing no detail. Beside her, Andrew Beauchamp strolled with casual authority, his expression kind yet measured, as if his full appraisal of them was complete before he even spoke.
“Showtime,” she said under her breath, her fingers curling instinctively around the delicate stem of her champagne flute.
“Devney.” His voice was firm, pulling her focus before the Beauchamps arrived. For once, there was no sharpness—only a calm, unwavering certainty. Almost reassuring. “You’ve got this.”
And with barely a moment’s pause, as Eleanor and Andrew stopped before them, she embraced the role with a sudden, natural confidence. “Mr. and Mrs. Beauchamp! What an absolute pleasure.”
“You must be Devney.” Eleanor’s voice was a perfect mix of intrigue and decorum.
She extended her hand to Ronan with genuine interest. “And you must be Mr. Wilder. Eleanor Beauchamp. Andrew has been looking forward to this conversation.” She glanced between them with curiosity.
“And what a lovely companion you’ve brought. ”
Devney hadn’t said a word when Ronan stepped in. His tone was decisive but not harsh as he said, “She is more than my companion.” He reached out to take her hand. “She’s my fiancée.”
“Congratulations,” Andrew said before shaking his hand. Then he turned his attention to her. His expression was pleasant, but the calculation behind it was hard to miss. “So, how did you two meet?”
She was prepared for this. “Ah, the classic question,” she said, buying a moment with another sip of champagne.
She glanced up at Ronan, who gave her one of those maddeningly neutral expressions—just enough movement to say, Go on, let’s see how you spin this.
Somehow, what they had planned didn’t seem to fit the bill, so she improvised.
“Actually,” she said, laughter slipping out as she spoke, “it’s more of a sitcom than a fairy tale.
We first met when I started working for him.
Strictly professional, of course. But after spending long hours together, putting out corporate fires, and navigating his unique approach to teamwork, the dynamic sort of evolved. Against all odds.”
She glanced at him, eyes twinkling. “Somewhere between crisis management and coffee runs, we realized we were more than a capable duo. And, well…” She shrugged, as if the rest were obvious.
“On our first official date, I drenched his immaculate white shirt with a full glass of merlot.” She tipped her head toward him with a cheeky grin.
Eleanor’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?”
Her grin turned shameless, mischief bright in her eyes. “Oh, absolutely. And then there was the time I accidentally locked us out of his lake house in the middle of winter. We had to spend the night in the boathouse until the locksmith could make it out the next day.”
A burst of laughter escaped Andrew as he looked at Ronan. “Sounds like you two have had quite the journey.”