Katie
“Michael, can you help me with this zipper? I can’t reach it,” I say, walking out of the bathroom.
He’s on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, but the moment he sees me, he straightens. His gaze locks onto me.
“Wow,” he says.
I smile, but I can feel the heat climbing up my neck, so I glance down, adjusting the strap on my heel to have something else to focus on. “Thank you.”
By the time I look back up, he’s already standing, walking toward me. He’s wearing a black suit that fits him perfectly, the jacket smooth across his shoulders and narrowing at his waist. The white shirt underneath is crisp. His tie is straight and exactly in place.
He stops behind me.
“Zipper,” I remind him.
His hand comes up, fingers brushing my back as he finds it, and I suck in a breath as my shoulders tense a little.
“Relax,” he murmurs.
“I am relaxed,” I say, which only makes him huff out a quiet laugh behind me.
His fingers find the zipper, and instead of pulling it up right away, he slides it higher inch by inch, agonizingly slow.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” I say.
He leans down, his voice brushing my ear. “Never.”
I glance back at him, narrowing my eyes a little. “You are shameless.”
“Mmm,” he hums, not even denying it.
He finishes and turns me toward him, smiling at me.
“You look incredible.”
“You do too.”
Michael’s hand finds mine as the city slides past the tinted windows of the SUV. He threads our fingers together, and I look down at our hands. I pull mine free and press my palm against his.
“You have a big hand.”
His mouth curves. “You know what they say about that.”
I shrug. “I wouldn’t. Yours is my only reference point.”
That earns a laugh, and I feel stupidly proud of myself.
The SUV eases to a crawl, and I turn toward the window, drawn to the light ahead of us.
We’re sitting in a line of cars outside the hotel downtown, one after another stretched down the block, each one waiting its turn at the entrance.
The hotel rises above the street in glass and gold, every window lit, the exterior throwing light back onto the pavement and the cars lined up in front of it.
Men in uniforms move between the vehicles.
They step in the second each one comes to a stop.
People step out dressed in suits and dresses.
The doors close, and the men are already at the next car, repeating the same motion without pause.
I watch it happen over and over, my attention catching on the details—the way a man adjusts his cuff as soon as his shoes hit the pavement, the way a woman smooths her dress once before heading inside.
My hand settles over my lap, fingers brushing the fabric of my dress as I take in the way it fits, the heels on my feet, and the quiet space inside the SUV compared to everything waiting outside. In a few seconds, that door is going to open, and I’ll be stepping out into it with everyone else.
“Hey.” Michael’s voice pulls me back before I can spiral any further. I turn toward him, and he’s already watching me. “You good?”
I press my lips together and glance out the window again before answering. “I mean, define good. Because I might not be as ready for this as I told myself I was.”
That earns the smallest shift in his expression.
“Doll,” he says, reaching over and taking my hand. “You’re going to be fine.”
I narrow my eyes at him a little. “That confident, huh?”
“I am,” he answers easily. “And I’ll be right next to you the entire time. You don’t have to leave my side unless you want to.”
I hold his gaze. “Really?”
His mouth curves. “Really.”
“You’re not going to leave me to go make some secret business deals?” I narrow my eyes at him.
He laughs. “No.”
The SUV moves forward and stops. The door opens, and Michael steps out before turning back, offering me his hand.
I take it and step out beside him. The first flash hits, then another, and another, bright enough that it throws off my vision for a second.
Voices come in right behind it, loud and overlapping, his name getting called from every direction.
My shoulders pull tight. My chest locks up. I feel the urge to turn away, to step back, to get out of it, but I don’t. I hold myself where I am, forcing everything into place, even as the noise keeps coming, louder, closer, and impossible to ignore.
“Mr. Amato, look this way.”
“Mr. Amato, we heard you donated over five-million to the cause.”
I can feel my pulse everywhere, in my throat, in my hands, and in the way my grip tightens around his. Michael pulls me in at his side, my arm sliding into his, and I latch onto that.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs near my ear.
I focus on him. I don’t focus on the lights or the voices, and I keep walking.
The doorman greets us as we step inside, the noise from outside cutting off behind us. The lobby is as polished as I remember from last Sunday. When Michael told me the event was being held at his hotel, I asked if his company ran the charity. It seemed like the obvious connection.
He told me no. He likes supporting it. He loves the arts, and he knows the founders well.
As he moves through the space, people notice.
It happens in pieces—heads turning, conversations dropping low enough that I can feel the shift, but it builds fast, until it’s constant.
At first, it’s all on him. Then it isn’t.
Their attention moves over to me, taking me in, and that makes me suddenly aware of every inch of myself walking next to him.
He doesn’t acknowledge any of it. His hand stays at my arm, his focus forward.
We stop at the elevator, where a few other people are already waiting, all of them dressed for the event.
“Michael Amato,” an older man says, reaching out to shake his hand. “è bello vederti.”
Michael smiles easily as he takes it. “Ah, Victor. Sì, sì. Anche tu.”
I blink once. I understood none of that. Not a single word. I still smile, because apparently that’s what I do now—stand next to Michael and pretend I know what the hell’s happening.
The woman beside him looks at me, so I smile. She doesn’t. Awesome.
“Victor. Silvia,” Michael says. “This is my girlfriend, Katie.”
Silvia reacts first. Her eyes widen. Her expression shifts before she can hide it. Victor follows a second later, a smile stretching across his face.
“Girlfriend?” he asks. “Weren’t you engaged to that Messina girl?”
Michael laughs. “Things change.”
“Well, young lady,” he says, addressing me. “If Michael Amato shows up to an event like this with a woman wrapped around his arm the way you are, people will know.”
I shake my head. “Know what?”
“That you belong to him.”
His smile shifts into something that makes my stomach turn slightly.
“And no one messes with what belongs to Michael Amato.”
I almost laugh it off, but when I look up at Michael, his jaw is tight, his eyes dark. The elevator doors open, and I’ve never been more grateful in my life.