Chapter 3
Three
He moved through the room with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times.
The music thumped, people got in his way, but he never hesitated. He moved like the crowd wasn’t an obstacle—it parted without him even having to ask.
I thought about turning back a half-dozen times, but I couldn’t. The truth was, I was a fish on his line, too damned curious for my own good.
Confidence dripped off every muscle. He didn’t look back––Not even once.
He walked like a man with purpose. Effortless, unshaken, like a man who knew exactly who he was and where he was going. I wasn’t sure if that fact thrilled or terrified me, but I was pretty sure it was a combination of the two—because my skin prickled with goosebumps with every step I took.
I followed from ten steps behind, watching the way he moved—shoulders square, posture flawless, every step was fluid. Then he turned a corner, and I had to quicken my pace to keep from losing him.
I was slightly out of breath when I caught up, at the end of a dimly lit hall in front of the gardens. He stood in front of a window, where stained glass cast colors of blue, green, and red across his stoic features.
“I’m nervous,” he said.
His voice was so quiet, I thought I’d misheard him.
“What?” I asked, half-laughing. What could he possibly be nervous about?
Then he turned to me, and his eyes caught the light—dark and honest, in a way that made it hard to look away.
“I’m nervous,” he said again. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”
I froze.
Three years in this line of work, and nothing should have surprised me––but he did.
That wasn’t what I expected.
I blinked a few times, then swallowed the jittery nerves that had climbed into my throat.
Rain tapped softly against the glass, and I turned toward it.
A cool draft whispered through the windowpane, brushing my skin.
I took a too-large sip of my drink, emptying it, then set the glass on a nearby table.
Fat and rhythmic drops began to fall, pounding against the window as though the storm sensed my unease. The sound filled the space between us like white noise, softening the edges of the jazz drifting in from the other room.
“You don’t look nervous,” I said, trying the best I could to disguise the shake in my voice.
“Well, that’s good to hear.” He shifted on his feet to face me, “Because I’m scared shitless.”
I hid my smile, “Why’s that?”
“Doesn’t matter—” He reached into his breast pocket. “We need to get back to the party before anyone notices we’re gone.”
I blinked, my brows pulling together. “You’re the one who pulled me out here. Isn’t there something—”
“Shhh…”
His finger pressed lightly to my lips, but before I could react, his other hand slipped something into my palm.
“Put these in your bag,” he murmured, his voice so close I could feel it against my skin.
He was inches from me—so close I could smell the spice of his cologne, feel the heat radiating off him. Some part of me—the foolish, reckless part—wanted to lean into that space between us. The smarter part wanted to take a step back and demand to know what the hell was going on.
I didn’t do either.
I looked down instead. Finding a neat stack of business cards in my hand. “Vivienne Blackwood?” I whispered. “Who’s that?”
“You,” he answered softly.
“I don’t under—”
Footsteps echoed from around the corner, and then he did something I wasn’t ready for. With a single touch, he tipped my chin up, guiding my face to his until the tip of my nose brushed the edge of his.
My breath caught. The world tilted.
It felt like the moment before a kiss… a collision.
His voice was barely audible, shaped against the air between us. “We’ve been dating for nine months,” he whispered. “We met in a bar in Florence, where you were sketching something in a notebook.”
“I don’t sketch,” I whispered.
The corners of his lips curving into an adorable smile. “It was raining out, and I came in for a drink. I saw you, and I couldn’t look away. You had this—” he exhaled, and the faint smell of his intoxicating breath floated down to me. “This glow about you…” he continued.
The couple exited the hall, then slowly, almost reluctantly, he stepped away from me again.
“You played hard to get,” he added after a pause. “But you accepted my drink.”
I glanced at him sideways, finding this story oddly familiar.
“I asked you if you wanted me to leave. You told me it was a free bar, and I could do what I wish.”
I couldn’t stop it, laughter burst out of me.
“So, I stayed.” He smiled “And one drink turned into two, then dinner, then a walk along the river where I kissed you for the first time and told you I’d never met anyone like you before.”
Suddenly my breathing became shallow. It all sounded so close to reality, yet too good to be true.
“We spent the summer tangled in sheets, stealing kisses in quiet bookstores, drinking wine on rooftops. You took me to all your favorite places—small, tucked-away spots no tourist would ever find. And I memorized everything about you. The way you tip your head back when you laugh. The way you go still when you’re lost in thought, and chew on the inside of your cheek when you’re nervous. ”
I swallowed hard, releasing the flesh of my cheek that had caught between my teeth without my noticing. “You pay a lot of attention for someone making all this up.”
His eyes flickered with something unreadable. “Maybe.”
Silence stretched between us, heavy and charged, making the hum of the music in the distance feel like a memory.
Dean took my hand again, curling my fingers around the cards again. “You are Vivienne Blackwood. And I—” he leaned in closer, his breath warm against my cheek, “—am madly in love with you.”
What the hell was going on? I closed my eyes, because the picture he painted, along with the alcohol I’d consumed, made it sound almost attainable.
I’d only just met the man a half hour ago, yet I found myself thinking that if he asked me to marry him––I’d say yes.
He continued telling me more about Vivienne Blackwood, about our history, this lie… but the more he told me about her, the more I became curious about him. Why was he doing this? Why didn’t he bring a real date, like a normal person? And more importantly, who the fuck was Vivienne Blackwood anyway?
Did she really exist? If so, where was she? Why wasn’t she here with him?
If there wasn’t a Vivienne Blackwood, what type of person made all that up? Down to printing business cards, for Christ’s sake!
He continued to talk, and I found myself in a trance. This man was obviously capable of finding a date. He was gorgeous, charming, and by the look of his suit, obviously wealthy enough. Then a thought hit me—maybe he was the crazy one!
He pulled out a box from his breast pocket and popped open the top.
I stepped backward, so shocked I could hardly see straight—a two-carat engagement ring was staring up at me.
“Should I take a knee?” he asked, slightly amused.
I was kidding. There was no way in hell that I would marry a man I’d just met. He was a stranger, and although I didn’t have a track record of making the best decisions, I wasn’t this kind of stupid. “I think I missed something,” I stammered out.
“We got engaged in Paris.” He took the ring from its housing. “I’m sure everyone will ask, so if you don’t mind…”
I paused for a moment, sure I was going to hyperventilate.
He took my hand in his, the warmth of his thumb running over the tops of my fingers.
For a split second, panic rose in my chest. I was thirty-one years old, and this was a moment I’d dreamt of since I was a little girl.
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
I shook my head, even as the promise of an eight-year-old nagged at my subconscious. A promise that a ring would touch that finger only once, or never at all…
But that had been a lifetime ago…
When I was young and naive.
When I thought love cured all.
That it was powerful enough to fix anything.
Yet… standing here now, my hand outstretched to a stranger, there was a tiny piece of me that mourned the loss. Knowing that I was selling this moment for a few hundred dollars shoved in my purse.
“Do it,” I urged, thrusting my hand closer to him, eager to get it over with.
Dean squinted, “Are you okay?”
I couldn’t bear his kindness. It almost made things worse.
“Hurry up," I whispered. “Before someone sees us.”
He didn’t answer, just shifted the ring in a way that made it shimmer in the dim lighting. He took a breath, then slid the ring onto my finger. “There.”
It fit perfectly.
Of course it fucking did.
I swallowed hard, my pulse thrumming an erratic rhythm as I stared down at the rock on my left hand.
It was beautiful. Catching the light in such a way that it threw tiny sparks everywhere.
His fingers held mine for a long time. Warm. Steady. Anchoring me in place.
“Now, we’re official,” he said softly.
I exhaled hard, letting go of the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding before glancing up at him again. His expression was unreadable, but his thumb—so lightly, so fleetingly—brushed against my knuckle before he let go of my hand.
My fingers twitched, and my eyes hesitantly dropped to the ring, taking in all its glory for the first time. The weight felt strange and foreign on my finger, but I had to admit… it was beautiful.
Simple.
Understated.
A thin platinum band with a single diamond. It was the kind of ring I would’ve picked for myself if this were real. The kind of ring that said forever without shouting it.
I glanced back at Dean to find his jaw was tight.
“Don’t get too excited,” he said. “It’s not real.”
I stiffened. Just like that, the magic of the moment was gone.
Rain still splattered against the window, soft and rhythmic, but I barely heard it. I turned toward the glass, needing a moment to gather my thoughts.
I was used to this.
Used to clients treating me like someone who couldn’t be trusted… But coming from him—after the moment we’d just shared—it felt like a slap across the face.
You’re not the same as me. And you never will be.
A lump formed in my throat, but before I could swallow it down, he exhaled. “I didn’t mean to offend you. You just looked so excited, and I… I ordered it from for twenty bucks.”
I blinked.
Paused.
Then, before I could stop, laughter burst out of me. I clapped a hand over my mouth, trying not to draw attention toward the hall, but my shoulders were shaking so hard it was impossible to contain.
Dean’s brow furrowed, but that crooked, almost boyish grin tugged at his lips. “What’s so funny?”
I shook my head, still unable to catch my breath. “It’s just—I just—” I exhaled, wiping a tear from the corner of my eye. “Everything about you surprises me, Dean.”
His smile softened, the charm that was there before settling into something heavier—something that made my stomach flutter like I was free-falling.
“You surprise me, too,” he said quietly. Then, with a pause that felt thick with intent, he added, “Vivienne Blackwood.”
His hand found mine before I could respond, then slowly and deliberately, he guided it into the crook of his arm as if we’d done this a hundred times.
“Come on,” he said. “You ready to go back to the party?”