CHAPTER 7
AUDREY
The fabric of his tuxedo jacket is rough beneath my fingers.
I should let go. The cameras are at the other end of the room. Simon is standing by the bar, effectively neutralized by whatever psychological warfare Malcolm just waged. The performance is over.
But my hand stays clamped to his lapel.
My brain is struggling to process the conflicting data.
The scent of cedar and expensive Scotch.
The heat radiating from his chest. The lingering, phantom pressure of his mouth against the sensitive skin right below my jaw.
It wasn't a sloppy, theatrical kiss meant for the cheap seats. It was deliberate. It was heavy.
It felt like a threat and a promise at the exact same time.
"You can breathe now, Audrey," Malcolm murmurs. His voice is pitched so low it barely carries over the sound of the string quartet playing near the dinosaur exhibit.
I drop my hand from his jacket, taking a quick, unsteady step back. My heel wobbles slightly on the polished marble floor, but I catch my balance before I can completely humiliate myself.
"I am breathing," I say, forcing my voice to sound annoyed instead of completely derailed. "I just wasn't expecting you to go off-script. We didn't rehearse physical contact."
"There is no script." Malcolm reaches out and smoothly takes the half-empty champagne flute from my other hand, setting it on a passing waiter’s tray.
"And if we rehearsed it, it would look rehearsed.
Simon knows you. He knows how you react when you are uncomfortable.
If I hadn't touched you, he would have realized you were faking. "
I press my lips together, tasting the faint residue of my own lipstick.
He’s right. That’s the worst part about Malcolm Vance. He is always, infuriatingly right. If he had just stood next to me like a bodyguard, Simon would have seen right through the lie. Simon knows I hate public displays of affection. He knows I hate being the center of attention.
But Simon doesn't know the version of me that lets a billionaire psychopath press his mouth to my neck in front of three hundred people.
"Where is he?" I ask, refusing to look toward the bar.
"He left the room," Malcolm says, his gaze sweeping the crowd with that same terrifying, predatory calm. "He walked out through the east corridor. His fiancée followed him about ten seconds later, looking highly confused."
A sharp, ugly spike of satisfaction hits my chest.
For a month, I have felt like a ghost haunting my own life. I watched Simon parade around the city, completely untouched by the wreckage he left behind. Now, he is the one running for the exit.
"Good," I say, lifting my chin.
"Don't get comfortable," Malcolm warns, placing his hand lightly on the small of my back again.
The touch is strictly professional this time, but my skin still hums under his palm.
"Simon retreating is a temporary victory.
He will go to my father. Preston will demand an explanation, and Simon will have to provide one. The real war starts tomorrow."
"I can handle tomorrow," I reply, letting him guide me through the crowd. "Right now, I just want to survive the next hour without spilling anything on this dress."
We spend the next forty-five minutes navigating the gala.
It is a masterclass in social manipulation. Malcolm doesn't introduce me to anyone. He doesn't have to. People naturally gravitate toward him, drawn by the gravity of his wealth and the sheer novelty of his presence. Politicians nod at him. Corporate executives offer tight, nervous smiles.
And every single one of them looks at the ring on my finger.
I play my part. I smile when appropriate. I lean into Malcolm’s side when a particularly aggressive real estate developer tries to corner us near the silent auction tables. I let the vintage diamond catch the light.
But the entire time, my awareness is split. Half of my brain is playing the role of the devoted fiancée. The other half is hyper-focused on the man standing next to me.
He never leaves my side. He doesn't abandon me to fetch a drink or take a phone call.
When a city councilman asks a thinly veiled question about how we met, Malcolm answers with a smooth, terrifyingly plausible lie about a private art gallery in New York.
He weaves the narrative so flawlessly that for a terrifying second, I almost believe it myself.
"You're very good at this," I murmur to him as we finally break away from a group of philanthropists.
"Lying?"
"Controlling the narrative." I reach up and adjust a loose strand of hair that escaped my updo. "You make them believe whatever you want them to believe. It’s a little scary."
"It’s not magic, Audrey. It’s leverage." Malcolm glances at his watch. "People believe what is most convenient for them. Right now, it is convenient for them to believe that Preston Vance’s attack dog has been domesticated. It makes them feel safer."
"Are you?" I ask, the question slipping out before my filter can catch it.
Malcolm stops walking. We are standing near the edge of the room, partially shadowed by a massive marble pillar. The crowd is thinning out as people move toward the dining hall for the main event.
He looks down at me. The ambient light casts sharp shadows across the angles of his face.
"Am I what?" he asks softly.
"Domesticated."
I shouldn't push him. I know the rules. I know he is using me to destroy his father, just like I am using him to destroy Simon. But standing here in the dark, the adrenaline from the night making me reckless, I want to see how far the transparency rule actually goes.
Malcolm doesn't smile. He doesn't offer a sarcastic comeback.
He takes a half-step closer. The physical space between us vanishes. I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.
"If I were domesticated," he says, his voice dropping to a low, rough murmur, "I would have let you keep your apartment. I would have hired a lawyer to sue Simon for your company, and I would have stayed in the shadows."
My pulse stutters. The air in my lungs starts to feel too thin.
"But you didn't," I whisper.
"No. I didn't." His eyes drop to my mouth again, lingering there for a second too long. "I brought you into my house. I put my grandmother’s ring on your finger. And I just spent the last hour imagining what would happen if I took you back to the penthouse and locked the door."
A hot, heavy flush spreads across my chest, burning all the way up to my cheeks.
He isn't playing the game right now. The cameras are gone. Simon is gone. This isn't a performance for the elite of Chicago. This is a confession, delivered with the cold, terrifying precision of a threat.
I open my mouth to respond, to say something witty and defensive, to remind him of the contract.
"Malcolm."
The voice cuts through the tension like a knife.
Malcolm’s gaze snaps up, the vulnerability vanishing instantly, replaced by a wall of absolute ice. He doesn't step away from me, but the shift in his posture is violent. He turns his head slowly.
I look past his shoulder.
Standing ten feet away, flanked by two men who look entirely too comfortable in their expensive suits, is Preston Vance.
He looks exactly like the photos I saw in the society pages, only older, and infinitely more dangerous.
He has Simon’s jawline, but none of Simon’s weakness.
His silver hair is perfectly styled. He is holding a glass of scotch, and he is looking at me like I am an insect that just crawled onto his dining table.
"Father," Malcolm says. His voice is dead. There is no inflection. No emotion.
"I was told you were here." Preston takes a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving my face. "I assumed it was a mistake. You despise galas. And yet, here you are. Making a spectacle."
"I am supporting the arts," Malcolm replies smoothly.
Preston lets out a short, humorless laugh. He takes a step closer, waving off his two guards. They stay back, but their eyes remain fixed on Malcolm.
"You are making a point," Preston corrects him. He finally shifts his gaze from me to his oldest son. "Simon came to me twenty minutes ago. He was quite distressed. He told me a rather absurd story about you and his former... business associate."
"Fiancée," I correct him.
The word hangs in the air.
Preston’s eyes snap back to me. The sheer force of his glare is suffocating. I understand why Simon is so terrified of him. Preston Vance doesn't need to raise his voice to make you feel like you are about to be erased from existence.
"Excuse me?" Preston says softly.
My heart is hammering against my ribs, but I force my spine to straighten. I press my thumb against the side of my index finger, anchoring myself to the pain.
"I wasn't his business associate," I say, keeping my voice steady. "I was his fiancée. Until he stole my company and locked me out of the building."
Preston stares at me for a long, agonizing moment. Then, he looks at Malcolm.
"You brought a stray into the museum to embarrass your brother," Preston says, dismissing me entirely. "It’s petty, Malcolm. Even for you. I expect this kind of emotional theater from Simon, but you are supposed to be the rational one."
"I am entirely rational," Malcolm says. He shifts his weight slightly, placing himself half an inch more between me and his father. It’s a protective gesture, subtle but undeniable. "Audrey and I are engaged."
Preston’s eyes drop to my left hand. He stares at the vintage diamond.
The silence that follows is heavy enough to crack the marble floor.
I watch the realization hit Preston. He recognizes the ring. The heirloom he wanted for Simon. The legacy he tried to control. Malcolm didn't just bring me here as a prop; he brought me here wearing the one thing Preston couldn't buy.
"You are playing a very dangerous game," Preston says, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. The polite society mask completely shatters.