Chapter 5
Olivia
A n hour into the most tedious charity dinner of my life, and I’ve met exactly zero promising husband candidates.
Just the usual Empire Heights crowd: old money in even older suits, trust fund boys who can’t hold eye contact, married men with wandering eyes, and conveniently missing wedding bands.
I’m about to call it a night when he appears.
He is absolutely devastating, tall and broad-shouldered, with dark, artfully disheveled hair. His eyes catch me: grey, stormy, and intent. The black tuxedo he wears fits like sin, every seam and line sculpted to his body, and there’s an intensity about him that makes my pulse quicken.
I have to remind myself that I’m on a mission to find a husband, not to get swept up by the first beautiful man I see.-
But God, what a face.
“I haven’t seen you around before, Alex. Are you new to Empire Heights, or have you just been hiding?”
His smile is crooked, boyish in a way that doesn’t match the sophisticated man wearing the expensive tuxedo. “A little of both. I’ve been traveling for business the past few years, but I’m back now. My friend dragged me here tonight. Said I needed to get out more.”
“Smart friend.” I let my gaze drift to the paintings on the walls, using them as cover. “I’m here on business, too.”
He arches a brow. “Business, at a gala?”
“I own an art gallery.” I gesture toward the paintings adorning the walls. “Networking is part of the job. Even when you’d rather be home with a glass of wine and a good book.”
“Ah, a kindred spirit.” His eyes crinkle at the corners, and something inside me flutters, unwelcome and sharp. “I was just thinking the same thing. Though the company has improved considerably since I met you.”
It’s a line, but it doesn’t feel like one.
There’s a warmth in his voice that seeps into my bones, makes me smile despite myself.
Alex is nothing like the string of bland men I’ve met this week.
He’s charming, yes, but not oily. Confident, but not arrogant.
And those eyes—they’re on me, like I’m the only important person in the room.
“You don’t strike me as someone who enjoys idle small talk.”
“You’re right,” he says, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone. “Small talk is torture. I’d much rather know what makes someone tick. For instance, what draws you to contemporary art? Most people at these events prefer their culture safely dead for at least a century or two.”
“You sound like you speak from experience.”
He shrugs, moving closer, and I catch the ghost of his cologne: expensive, masculine, addictive. “Unfortunately, yes. I’ve sat through more conversations about the ‘investment potential’ of Renaissance masters than I care to count. But you didn’t answer my question.”
“I love art that challenges people,” I say. “Pieces that make you uncomfortable, that force you to see the world differently. There’s something powerful about an artist brave enough to create something that might not be universally loved.”
His gaze is relentless. “Brave enough to risk everything for something they believe in.”
“Exactly.” I tilt my head. “What about you? What do you do when you’re not being dragged to charity dinners?”
He grins. “Guess.”
I take in the way he stands: balanced, in control, hands well-kept but not soft. “Finance,” I say. “Or consulting. Something that requires you to read people fast and make big decisions.”
His smile widens, and I can tell I’m close. “Not bad. I studied corporate law, but now I’m in operations and development.”
I arch a brow. “That’s vague. Are you being mysterious, or is your job actually that boring?”
“Neither, I hope. I help companies expand and restructure when needed. It’s more interesting than it sounds, though I suspect art curation is far more creative.”
“It has its moments.” I’m relaxing despite myself.
Alex is dangerous. He makes me forget I’m supposed to be searching for a rich husband, not flirting with a perfect stranger.
“But the business side can be just as cutthroat as corporate restructuring. You’d be surprised how vicious art collectors can get. ”
“I bet you can handle yourself. In fact, I’d wager you’re more formidable than most of the collectors you deal with.”
I’m caught off guard, warmth rising in my cheeks. “Formidable? That’s not how most people describe me.”
“Then they’re not paying attention.” His voice is low, intimate. “There’s something about you, Olivia. You don’t seem like the type to pretend.”
“You’d be surprised.”
Alex studies me. “I don’t think I would. You carry yourself like someone who’s used to being in control. But there’s something in your eyes. Like you’re always waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“You’re very observant for someone who claims to hate these events,” I say, reaching for my champagne to buy a second of space.
He shrugs, smile crooked. “Occupational hazard. You learn to read between the lines when your livelihood depends on figuring out what people want versus what they’re willing to admit.”
A waiter appears with fresh champagne. Alex takes two glasses, offering one to me.
“To honest conversations at dishonest events,” he says, raising his glass.
I clink mine against his. “That’s either very cynical or very wise.”
“Can’t it be both?”
The champagne is crisp, bubbles sharp on my tongue. Or maybe it’s just Alex, standing too close, his cologne winding around me. When he shifts to avoid the gesticulating man behind him, his shoulder brushes mine. My pulse skips.
“Tell me something real,” he says suddenly.
The request catches me off guard, and I almost laugh at the irony. Here I am, trying to find a husband under false pretenses, and he’s asking for honesty.
“That’s a dangerous request at a function like this.”
“I like danger. Besides, I have a feeling you’re more interesting than anyone else in this room.”
The sincerity in his voice is disarming. When was the last time anyone looked at me like I was worth knowing, not just worth using? Not in the past week, that’s for sure.
“Alright,” I say, surprising myself. “Something real? I hate these events. The pretending, the networking, the way everyone smiles while calculating your value. I hate being the same. I wish I could leave right now and just go home to my cat and a bottle of wine.”
“You have a cat?”
“Her name is Duchess. She’s a Persian with an attitude problem and anyone who disturbs her nap schedule.” I pause, realizing how much fun I’m having. “Now is your turn. Tell me something real.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, swirling the champagne in his glass as he considers. But then he meets my eyes directly and says quietly, “My father arranged my marriage. To a woman I’ve never met.”
My champagne glass freezes halfway to my lips.
I should feel relieved. Here’s my perfect excuse to walk away from this man who makes my skin prickle with awareness. Instead, my chest tightens.
I’m disappointed , I realize. I’m disappointed that this interesting, attractive man is already spoken for—even if it’s not by choice.
“An arranged marriage,” I echo, trying to keep my voice neutral even as my mind races. “In this day and age?”
Apparently, it’s still very popular in our circles.
He laughs, bitter. “Family expectations. Political alliances, business mergers—all the usual reasons people in our circles get married.” He drains his glass in one swift motion, his throat working as he swallows.
When he looks at me again, his smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Love doesn’t factor into the equation.”
“We should both just run away and start over somewhere else,” I joke.
“We should.” His eyes are strangely intense. “Do you want to run away from all of this for one night?”
The question hangs between us. I should say no. I should find Cassandra, work the room, remember that I have sixteen days to save Tiffany from her own arranged marriage, and that running off with a stranger won’t help.
But looking into Alex’s eyes, I see the same desperation I’ve been carrying all week. The weight of expectation. The pressure. The exhaustion of pretending.
“Where would we go?” I hear myself asking, and I’m shocked by how breathless I sound.
Alex’s smile is slow. He offers his hand. “Anywhere but here. My car’s parked outside.”
I should refuse. I should remember why I’m here, the rules I etched into bone: Olivia, the dutiful sister; Olivia, the gallery owner; Olivia, the woman with a plan.
Instead, I stare at his outstretched hand.
The music from the ballroom fades to a distant hum as I stand at this crossroads, champagne trembling in my grip. Alex waits, patient, watching me with those impossible eyes.
“I don’t usually do things like this,” I whisper, though I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince him or myself.
“Neither do I, but there’s something about tonight. About you.”
“What about your fiancée?”
“She’s not my fiancée. Not yet. And honestly, I don’t even know her. She’s just a name, a photograph, a deal brokered by our families. I’m planning to refuse anyway.”
A thousand reasons to decline parade through my mind.
But then I look at Alex’s hand, at the way his fingers curl slightly, inviting me to take a leap I haven’t dared in years.
His gaze is steady, unflinching, as if he already knows I’m going to say yes.
And maybe he does. Perhaps he sees the cracks in my facade, the way I’ve been holding myself together with sheer willpower and desperation.
Maybe running away for one night isn’t the answer, but it might be exactly what I need. A few hours where I don’t have to be anyone but myself.
“One night,” I say quietly.
His smile transforms him, erasing the tension I hadn’t noticed before. “One night,” he agrees.
I take his hand.