Chapter Twenty-Two #2
The rest of dinner passes more pleasantly with Louis turning his attention to the ice cream parlor owners. Sebastian occasionally catches my eye across the rim of his bourbon glass, and those brief moments of connection anchor me.
As the servers clear our dinner plates, Sebastian’s mom steps to the microphone, gently tapping it.
A hush falls over the room as heads swivel toward the stage, conversations trailing off into expectant silence.
She gives a short speech, and one by one, the major donors take their turns at the podium, talking over the crowd’s murmurs. Then Sebastian is called to speak.
His tall frame commands attention on the stage, shoulders broad under his perfectly tailored suit.
The spotlight catches in his dark hair as he speaks passionately about the racing horses, his hazel eyes flashing with intensity.
He’s magnetic like this—not merely handsome, but alive with conviction, drawing everyone’s gaze.
When his speech draws to a close, everyone erupts in applause, the energy palpable. His mom joins him on the stage, announcing that dessert will be served shortly, followed by drinks in the main room and dancing in the ballroom.
Sebastian returns to our table, and admirers immediately surround him.
He acknowledges them politely but keeps his focus on me as we’re served our dessert.
Everyone at our table receives elegant crystal dishes of panna cotta with berry compote.
Everyone except me. The server places a different plate before me: a perfect slice of chocolate Sacher torte.
“There seems to be a mistake,” I begin, looking up at the server.
“No mistake, ma’am,” he replies with a discreet smile, nodding his chin toward Sebastian.
I turn to find him watching my reaction with barely contained pleasure. Looking between him and my dessert, a warmth spreads through me that he’d noted such a small detail.
“You did this?” I ask.
A hint of vulnerability flickers across his features, mingling with the quiet pride in his eyes. “I might have made a special request.”
“You remembered from that conversation we had about desserts? When I told you about my grandmother making this for my birthdays?”
He dismisses the gesture with a tilt of his head, but the thoughtfulness behind it resonates louder than any grand declaration. “Try it,” he encourages, leaning forward slightly. “See if it measures up.”
Louis and Thorne exchange curious glances at my unique dessert, but I’m too touched by the gesture to care about their scrutiny.
I take the first bite. The rich chocolate and subtle sweetness of apricot transport me back to my grandmother’s kitchen. I close my eyes for a moment, savoring both the flavor and the thoughtfulness behind it.
“So good,” I moan. “It’s almost as good as hers.” I offer him a taste from my fork, our eyes lock, and something shifts between us. This small moment feels more intimate than an embrace.
Around us, guests rise from their tables as dessert ends. The gentle notes of a string quartet drift from the ballroom, drawing guests toward the sound.
Sebastian leans closer, his voice low and meant only for me. “I believe I was promised a dance. ”
The way he says it, somewhere between a question and a statement, sends a pleasant shiver down my spine. “I believe you were,” I reply, setting my napkin beside my now-empty dessert plate.
He stands and offers his hand. I place mine in his, and the warmth of his fingers is a promise.
A few attempt to pull him away to talk business, but like earlier, he is polite but firm, telling them he’s promised me a dance.
The gazes of strangers press into me, and the flash of the cameras follow us, but I ignore them all, falling under the spell of my date.
When we reach the dancefloor, the song transitions to something slower.
His hand slides from my waist to the small of my back, fingers splaying against the fabric of my dress.
Each point of contact sends a wave of heat through me.
We sway to the music, and I’m lost in the dark hazel depths of his eyes as he draws me closer with gentle insistence.
My breath catches. The space between us, once proper and formal, has disappeared. His cologne and something uniquely him envelops me, making my head swim with every inhale.
“I’m really glad you’re here with me tonight,” he whispers, his lips so close to my ear that his breath caresses my skin. The sensation sends a cascade of goosebumps down my neck, across my shoulders, and along my arms.
“Me too,” I manage to reply, my voice giving away my desire. My fingers curl against the nape of his neck, brushing against the soft hair there.
The music swells and he pulls me closer until our bodies are flush.
My nerves come alive, mapping every exquisite point where we meet.
The solid plane of his chest against mine, the strong thigh occasionally pressing between my legs as we move, the heat of his palm burning through the thin material of my dress.
I feel his heartbeat—or is it mine?—racing beneath the layers of clothing.
His rhythm falters for just a moment when my fingers trace small circles at the base of his skull. His pupils dilate, and his grip on my waist tightens ever so slightly. The corner of his mouth lifts in a smile meant only for me.
We’re barely dancing now, just swaying in place. The rest of the room fades until there is only Sebastian and me. My nipples tighten against my dress, and I arch toward him, seeking more contact. His hand slides lower on my back, decidedly possessive.
“Sebastian,” I breathe his name like a prayer, an invitation.
He draws closer, our breaths mingling. The hunger I see on his face matches the ache building between my legs. His gaze drops to my lips, and I lean in, drawn by an invisible force I neither can nor want to resist.
“Honey, there you are,” says a woman.
We turn, and I recognize his mother. Up close, she is even more glamorous, with the same dark hair and light brown eyes as Sebastian. Her slender frame appears delicate at first glance, but the determined set of her jaw reveals an inner strength that belies her fragile appearance.
“I wondered if you’d make time to say hi to your son,” Sebastian teases. “You know, the one you bullied into coming here. Mother, this is Rosalia.” He slides an arm around my waist and says, “Rosalia, this is my mother, Catherine.”
Catherine’s attention is fixed on where his hand rests on my hip, her eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. The intimate and relaxed way he touches me should be thrilling, but his mother’s disapproval drains all the pleasure from it.
She nods at me. “Pleasure.” Then, resting a delicate hand on Sebastian’s shoulder, she says, “For someone who didn’t want to be here, you seem to be enjoying yourself.” Her perfect peach lips press into a thin line as if she’s sipped bargain-bin bourbon.
Why wouldn’t she want her son to have a nice time? I look at Sebastian. His smile has vanished, replaced with a slight frown.
“Is there a problem?” he asks in a flat tone.
“Of course not.” She pats his arm in a placating gesture, but she glances at me with barely concealed bewilderment, as if puzzled why I’m with her son. Then she lowers her voice. “People are gossiping. They want to know who your date is, and if your rather risqué dancing is—”
“We’re dancing close, not grinding on the damn dance floor.” Sebastian’s arm tightens around my waist, drawing me closer to his side as if physically shielding me from his mother’s judgment .
She leans in. “Some say it’s because Tiffany’s here.”
His head jerks up, scanning the room. “Why the hell is she here?” he hisses.
My stomach twists. Damn, first his brother. Then his cruel father and disapproving mom. Now his freaking ex-wife. Hell, maybe my gaslighting ex-boyfriend will make an appearance at the gala next?
“The Birchsky family bought a table and brought her as their guest,” Catherine says. “I’m sure for the entertainment factor.” Her attention settles on a middle-aged couple across the room. “This gala will be the last one they attend.”
Her words sound like a promise. I now see that her fragile appearance is definitely an illusion.
“And I will not be their entertainment,” Sebastian says. He turns to me. “Do you want to leave?”
I glance at him. He doesn’t look devastated, just annoyed. But his mother has gone pale, her shoulders slumped as if the weight of his potential departure is crushing her.
Against my better judgment, I say, “The music is great. Let’s stay a little longer?”
The ice in Catherine’s demeanor melts slightly, and a hint of a smile touches her lips. “I’m sorry, I missed your last name, Rosalia, was it? Please forgive my poor manners.”
“Manchester,” I reply.
Catherine’s brow furrows, but before she can inquire further, Sebastian says, “If you don’t mind, Mother, we’re going to step outside for some fresh air. I’d like to show Rosalia the rose garden.”
With a brief nod, she acquiesces. Relief ripples through my body as Sebastian guides me away from the probing questions and toward the promise of a moment alone together.
Leaving the ballroom, I tell him I need to visit the washroom. He steers me in that direction. Once inside, I run my fingertips under the cold water before rubbing them on my temples. The door behind me opens and a tall woman enters .
She is a vision of perfection in a sleek, black gown that clings to her every curve as if it were an extension of her.
She glides to the sink beside me. The back of her dress comes into view, and wow.
The daring plunge descends to the base of her spine, the expanse from shoulder to shoulder is adorned with glistening stones that drape like an exquisite necklace against her smooth skin.
The woman looks me over. “That’s a bold choice,” she sniffs. “I’m not sure I could pull off that color, but you wear it with such...confidence.”
There is that word again, “bold.” And, like when Louis said it, it doesn’t feel like a compliment.
“Um, thanks,” I mutter.
Pulling a lipstick from her clutch, the woman says, “You’re the Rosalia everyone’s talking about. Sebastian’s temporary rebound.”
What the hell? “Who are you?”
“Tiffany Blackstone.”