Chapter 10 Queen of the Night （Wesley）
QUEEN OF THE NIGHT (WESLEY)
I’m ready to meet my girlfriend’s family at the opera.
Except she’s not really my girlfriend. She’s my fake fiancée.
Or was. It stopped feeling fake somewhere between our first pretend kiss and this morning’s airport coffee.
My phone buzzes.
Big Russian: Tonight is the big night, yes? Meeting the family?
Me: Yeah. Opera. Wish me luck.
Big Russian: You are good man, Wesley Kane. They will love you. Just be yourself.
Me: That’s the plan.
Big Russian: And if they do not love you, I will fight them.
I grin despite my nerves.
Me: Appreciate it, brother.
Pocketing my phone and keys, I head out.
Me: On my way down.
Joy: Ready.
I take the stairs two at a time, coat draped over one arm, bow tie snug. Her door clicks. Then it opens, and my brain short circuits.
Black. Not cute black. Opera black. The dress skims her: clean neckline, bare shoulders, a sweep that promises floor length until she steps and the slit flashes knee and the blade of a heel.
Hair blown out and pinned low, elegant as a swan’s neck.
Diamonds at her ears. The ring catches the hallway light when she reaches for her clutch, and for one stolen second, I let myself believe that means something permanent.
I’ve never seen her this way. Not the girl in hoodies shooting videos, not the live wire who set me on fire in a locker room, not the feral creature who wrecked me in Alaska. This is something older. Sharper. A Joy the world is trained to recognize and step back for.
All I can do is stare. The heels change her height; they change the lines of her calves, the way her hips set under the silk. It’s devastating. My Joy and someone I’ve never met, both looking back at me.
“Hi,” she says, and the smallest corner of her mouth tilts, enough to let me know she sees what this is doing to me. Enough to ruin me twice.
“Not fair, Foxy,” I manage. “In hoodies and jeans, you’re irresistible. Like this?”
Before she can react, I step in, hand at her jaw, her back against the doorframe. I kiss her hard enough that she gasps—that sound goes straight through me.
For a second, we’re still in my childhood bedroom, her laughing and rolling me under, demanding more—just us. Then she exhales, disentangles, smooths her skirt. The shift is visible. She slides herself back into the performance, and I feel it like a temperature drop.
“So.” She doesn’t meet my eyes. “Tonight is straightforward. We show up, pose for a few photos, say hello to my family and a few of their friends. Low key.”
“I can do low key—”
“The trustees will be there,” she says too fast. “My mother’s friends. It’s mostly just an appearance. We don’t have to stay long after the performance.”
I frown. “Okay. But you’ve been weird all day. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” She finally looks up, and her eyes are too bright. “I’m just nervous. You know. Introducing you. To everyone.”
“They’re going to love me.” I grin, trying to crack whatever’s wound tight under her ribs. “I’m very lovable.”
She laughs, but it splinters. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “You are.”
I pull her in, kiss her temple. She’s trembling. “Hey. It’s going to be fine. I promise.”
She nods against my chest but doesn’t answer.
“Come on.” I squeeze her fingers. “Let’s go wow them.”
We ride the elevator to the garage. When I open the door to my 911 for her, she doesn’t blink. No impressed smile. She just gathers the black silk at her knees and slides in like she’s done it a thousand times.
I get in, start the engine. “Music?”
“Sure.”
Classical drifts in when I hit the radio. The heater warms the air. The wipers flick once. I pull south, headlights threading into traffic.
December drops a bruise-colored lid over the Hudson. The Palisades run dark to our left; the George Washington Bridge throws a net of light ahead.
She talks easily—production design, that the soprano tonight is supposed to hit a top F that makes people cry, how the chandeliers rise like planets before curtain. Sparkly. Effortless. Practiced. None of it lands where I can reach her.
“Joy,” I cut in.
“Hm?”
“You’re allowed to be nervous. But you’re scaring me a little.”
She turns, and there it is for a split second—raw fear, guilt, something desperate. “I’m sorry. I just—” She swallows. “Let’s just get through tonight. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say, but the knot in my gut tightens.
We hit the West Side, slide down toward Lincoln Center. The city knifes up around us, windows catching the last light like a thousand coins in the air.
She points out a building she loves, a fire escape a cinematographer shot last year, a florist that does “sculptural arrangements.” I listen and don’t, because I’m cataloging the micro-shifts: how she leans when she laughs and then remembers posture, how her thumb worries the edge of her clutch and then goes still, and how my name lands like both invitation and caution when she says it.
We park and as we get out, the air hits us cold and faintly metallic—snow and exhaust. Across the avenue, Lincoln Center blazes. Fountains toss light; banners ripple.
“THE MAGIC FLUTE” arcs in gold across the glass. The Queen of the Night towers over the plaza, jeweled and severe.
Joy threads her hand through my arm. “Ready?” she asks.
“Always,” I nod, though I don’t know which Wesley she needs tonight. So I give her the one New York knows: the pretty, camera-proof defenseman who smiles fine and keeps his hands light.
The lobby glows—gold, glass, marble, sound bouncing in polite laughter.
She moves through it like water slipping around stone.
Nod here. Kiss-the-air there. I trail a half step behind, trying to reconcile the woman under my hand with the girl filming drills at practice and telling Sokolov to keep his elbows up.
“This way,” she murmurs, and pulls me toward the red-carpeted stairs.
We climb. My palm finds the small of her back automatically. At the top a quiet hallway curves away from the main house. Mahogany doors. Private boxes.
Joy stops at one. Her hand hovers on the handle. She looks at me. I nod.
She opens the door.
Six plush seats in two rows and a perfect sightline to the stage. Champagne on ice in a silver bucket. Programs laid out like invitations. And her family already standing.
Her mother turns first. Blonde hair swept into an elegant knot, pale eyes, emerald gown. Her smile is one you give donors, not friends. Polite, assessing, cool.
“Darling.” She air-kisses Joy’s cheek, not smudging lipstick. Then those blue eyes land on me, flick down and back up, cataloging. “And you must be Wesley.”
“Mrs. Preston.” I offer my hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
Her fingers touch mine for half a second. “Serena,” she corrects pleasantly. Her expression doesn’t warm. “We’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
A man steps in—tall, graying at the temples, wire rims, gentler mouth. “Robert Preston,” he says, and his handshake is real. “Good to meet you, Wesley.”
“Thank you, sir. The feeling’s mutual.”
Then a younger woman approaches: blonde, Joy’s features cut finer and held tighter, all clean lines and not an ounce of extra anywhere.
She slides in with perfect balance, like her spine’s on a wire.
“Lila,” she says, and pulls me into a hug without waiting for permission.
“Ignore Mother. She’s already measuring you for the vault. No one passes on the first try.”
“Lydia Beatrix,” Serena chides mildly.
“Lila,” she corrects smoothly, then stage-whispers to me, “She pretends she named me after my grandmother. She actually named me after a yacht.”
Despite myself, I huff out a laugh.
And then I see him.
Silver hair, navy suit, holding a glass of champagne and chatting with Joy’s father.
Julian Rothschild.
Owner of the New York Defenders.
My boss.
My pulse spikes so hard, my vision tightens at the edges.
What the hell is he doing here?
Joy’s fingers squeeze my elbow. “Come meet my uncle,” she says softly.
Her uncle?
For a beat, my brain doesn’t process the words. Then it hits.
Her uncle. Julian Rothschild. Owner of my team.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
Rothschild turns, smile easy, hand already out. “Wesley,” he says warmly. “Good to see you again.”
“Mr. Rothschild.” My voice sounds far away to my own ears. “I-I didn’t realize—”
“Julian, please.” His handshake is firm; his eyes are sharp. “And yes. I’m Joy’s uncle. I assumed she’d mentioned that.”
Time stalls.
I glance down at Joy.
She’s gone white. Not blushing—white. Staring at the carpet like maybe if she doesn’t move, the floor will open and eat her alive.
She didn’t mention it.
She didn’t mention that the man who signs my checks, who could move me to the bench or trade me across the continent with a phone call, is her relative.
“No,” I say slowly. “It…didn’t come up.”
Julian’s brow lifts a millimeter, but he doesn’t comment. “Well,” he claps my shoulder easily, “for what it’s worth, you’ve been a tremendous asset this season. You and Sokolov have been a wall. We’re lucky to have you.”
“Thank you, sir.” My throat feels tight. Lucky to have you echoes in my head.
Beside me, Joy still hasn’t looked up.
Why didn’t you tell me?
Lila slides between us, a human buffer, all champagne sparkle. “I saw you on that Times Square billboard,” she says, eyes bright. “The sports drink. You definitely do it justice.”
Heat snaps in my neck. I force a grin. “Appreciate it.”
“How wonderful,” Serena purrs, and her smile goes sharp. “Endorsements.”
“It pays the bills,” I manage.
“I’m sure it does,” Serena murmurs.
Lila shoots her mother a look. “Ignore her,” she stage-whispers to me. “She’s allergic to the concept of other people’s work.”
Robert clears his throat. “Shall we sit? Curtain’s in a few minutes.”
We settle in. Joy sits beside me, her thigh pressed to mine, fingers cold where I take her hand.
Leaning in, I whisper, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was going to,” she whispers back, voice shaking. “I tried—”
“Your uncle is my boss, Joy.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I—”