Chloe
In the lobby of my apartment building, I twist the engagement ring nervously on my finger. I’ve been wearing it for the past few days, ever since the incident outside of Tristan’s office.
A shiver runs through me as I remember the dangerous look in his eye, the bite to his tone. He was so… possessive. He ran that other man—I can’t even remember his name anymore—off like he was a scared deer.
And… well, I told him I’d wear the ring once the engagement was announced. I hadn’t expected him to announce it right then and there, but I wasn’t about to go back on my word.
The diamond glitters in the calm lights of the lobby, catching my eye even when I’d rather not look at it. It’s a reminder of the strange situation we’re in, but it’s undeniably beautiful.
I glance at the glass front doors, hoping to see my driver pulling up. No such luck. The streets are slicked with a rare Los Angeles rain, and traffic is backed up to the corner. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s stuck in the gridlock somewhere.
Tonight, I’m supposed to attend an event hosted by both of our families.
Our engagement party, where we will officially announce our union.
It’s a bit of a moot point now. Tristan’s social media posts got the rumor mill buzzing more effectively than any formal event.
Most of our social circle already knows we’re getting married.
It’s a big deal too. Two wealthy and powerful families. One of the most eligible bachelors in Los Angeles, probably on the entire West Coast. Now that he’s off the market, the gossip is flowing fast.
Outside, a sleek black SUV pulls into the driveway. I get to my feet, nodding my thanks to the doorman as he holds the front doors open for me. My driver, Clint, hurries around to the other side of the car to meet me at the awning with an umbrella, then escorts me to the back seat of the car.
The venue is across town. I spend the half-hour drive with a pre-emptive glass of Prosecco in the back of the car. The SUV has a well-stocked mini fridge, and, well, this is a celebration, isn’t it? Might as well get the champagne flowing now, while I don’t have to rub shoulders with the Thornes.
When Clint pulls up to the front entrance of the venue, a well-known hotel on the north side of the city, I down the remainder of the Prosecco. I let myself out of the car before he can reach my door.
“Thanks,” I mutter to him out of the corner of my mouth. “Be on standby to pick me up if this goes south, okay?”
Clint coughs lightly to cover up a laugh. “Of course, Ms. Dawson. I’m sure it will go well.”
I huff out a breath. “I’m not. But your confidence is reassuring.”
The lobby of the hotel is grand, adorned with oil paintings that almost reach the full length of the wall.
The floors beneath my feet are marble, gleaming in the light of half a dozen crystal chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling.
Behind the reception desk, rich, dark wood panels and gold accents add warmth to the space.
Across the space, I see my father leaning over the reception desk, speaking to the concierge. He turns and spots me, breaking into a smile that never quite reaches his eyes.
I head toward him. He lifts a hand to gesture to my mother, who’s sitting over by a fireplace in the corner of the lobby. She rushes over to us as well.
“Are you ready, darling?” my father asks almost absent-mindedly.
I nod. “Sure.”
“Oh, you look gorgeous,” my mother exclaims, laying a hand on my arm and squeezing. “I love this dress. Where did you get it?”
“It’s from a New York designer, Alice Frond,” I tell her.
No amount of perfectly-tailored chiffon could help me move past the grim reality of this situation, but I refrain from saying that.
I doubt my mother even knows how I feel about this whole affair.
I’d like to think that, if she did know, she wouldn’t be so cavalier with those feelings.
“Chloe, I’m glad I caught you before we go in there,” my father says, his tone businesslike as always. “There are a few things I wanted to talk to you about ahead of time.”
I offer him a brisk nod, my jaw clenched.
“A few of the guests tonight are high-profile potential clients. In particular, I want you to find Adam Armstrong. Do your best to network. Alright?”
Inwardly, I sigh. My father is always in business mode.
He never seems able to shut it off, even for something as personal as an engagement party.
But he’s right. Adam Armstrong, the CEO of up-and-coming streaming service Instabox, is an important target.
MediaSphere has been courting his business for a while.
I’d be a fool not to seize this opportunity.
Still, the suggestion doesn’t sit well in my already-churning stomach.
“Chloe!”
I turn toward the sound of the new voice, grateful to have a distraction from my father’s pep talk.
It’s my sister. Genevieve runs through the lobby toward us, her heels clicking on the marble. She’s normally an inch shorter than me, but in her stilettos, she’s managed to even up the height disparity. Her light brown hair billows out around her in salon-designed waves.
“Hey,” I say, waving. “Ready to go in?”
“I need to clear something up at the desk first,” my father says. “I’ll see all of you in there.”
With my mother to one side of me and my sister to the other, I head toward the ballroom doors on the far side of the lobby.
The ballroom itself is huge, made even larger by the mirrored panels strategically placed along the walls.
The focal point of the ballroom is a large, gleaming dance floor, polished to perfection and surrounded by tables adorned with crisp, white linens and exquisite floral centerpieces—cream and red roses, of course, for romance.
Each table is meticulously set with fine china, crystal glassware, and polished silverware.
I’m fashionably late to my own engagement party, it seems. Most of our guests are already here, milling around on the outskirts of the dance floor and nursing drinks from the open bar.
“I’m going to get a pinot,” my mother says. “Can I get either of you a drink?”
“I’ll have the same,” Genevieve says brightly. She glances at me, and I shake my head, my lips pursed.
“Are you sure, darling?” my mother asks. “It’s a celebration, after all.”
“I’m sure.” I want to keep my head as clear as possible tonight. “Thank you, though.”
As my mother wanders off, Genevieve grins at me. “So how are you enjoying being our parents’ favorite?”
The question takes me aback. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re helping expand the business so much,” she says, still smiling. “You know Dad is thrilled with you right now.”
Uncomfortable, I shift my weight, forcing a little laugh. It’s fake as hell, but Genevieve doesn’t seem to pick up on how weird I feel.
“Speaking of Dad, I’d better mingle,” I say. “He gave me some homework for this evening.”
Genevieve rolls her eyes. “Of course he did. Never a day off with him, is there?”
Never a day off for the next three years, I think to myself, but don’t say aloud. I start off toward the tables on the far side of the room. I’ll work my way around the outskirts until I get to Armstrong, who’s sitting adjacent to the dance floor.
I’ve been going to parties like this one for my entire life, but I always struggle a bit at them. Since I can only hear out of one ear, I have to take care to focus and make sure I can hold a conversation—make sure I don’t end up in the wrong position with my hearing drowned out by noise around me.
I’ve made my way through two tables when my eyes lock with Tristan’s from across the room. He starts to make his way toward me. Aware of all the eyes on me, I bite back the instinctive cold greeting, forcing a smile.
As he draws closer, something passes across his face as he looks me up and down, taking in my fitted, swoop-necked black dress. He reaches for my hand, lifting it, his thumb brushing the ring on my finger.
“That’s better,” he says, too quietly for anyone nearby to hear. Then he drops his head and places a kiss on the back of my hand.
My heart stutters at the feeling of his lips on my skin. I swallow, dropping my gaze to the marble floor.
Tristan places a hand on my hip, tucking me close by his side. I frown, looking up at him.
“I was actually headed over to that table by the dance floor,” I tell him, gesturing to Armstrong’s table. “My father asked me to speak to some business contacts this evening.”
A smirk flashes across his face. He chuckles. “You shouldn’t be working tonight. It’s your engagement party.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. He’s so full of it. I mean we’re both technically working tonight, aren’t we?
“You just don’t want me talking to them because you know I’ll be making inroads for MediaSphere,” I snip at him. “Just because we’re getting married doesn’t mean you can get in the way of my—”
“Maybe,” he interrupts. “Or maybe I just want my future wife by my side tonight. All night. Is that so wrong?”
There’s something about the way he says it—about the way he holds me close, his hand resting above my hip—that stops my train of thought in its tracks. This feels… genuine. I can feel my heart racing, and pray he doesn’t notice.
He’s good at this. Too good. I feel like I’m going insane.
A man approaches us. He looks strikingly like Tristan, although he’s wearing glasses. His hair is longer, and his eyes are brown rather than blue, but there are enough similarities in their appearances that it’s easy to tell they’re twins.
“Hey,” Reid says, nodding to both of us. “You guys making the rounds?”
“We were just about to,” Tristan answers.
I know what that means. My family has hosted enough high-end events like this, and by now, I know what’s expected of me, even if it’s stressful to actually meet those expectations.
Luckily, the way Tristan is holding me, my bad ear is toward him, so I should be able to hear whoever we need to talk to just fine.