Chapter 7 #2
The waiter comes by, pouring more White family wine into his glass, but I can’t stop staring at the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
“They’re probably not wrong on the last one,” he adds.
I bite my cheek to keep from grinning at that. “Glad one of us finds this entertaining.”
He shrugs, reaching out to grab the glass. “It’s better than dwelling on how fucked up it is.”
The pianist in the corner starts a new song, something slow that makes the cacophony of conversation in the restaurant fade into background noise. Harry’s attention shifts the moment my shoulders relax just an inch.
“The music helping?”
“A bit,” I admit, shoving the lettuce in my mouth.
He studies me for half a second, then sets down his glass and pushes back from the table. “Dance with me,” he says, so nonchalant I’m almost certain I’ve misheard him.
I cover my mouth with my hand, desperately trying to swallow the lettuce without choking. “What?”
“Dance with me,” he repeats, standing up as if it's the most casual thing in the world. He extends a hand to me, palm up, waiting. “They already think we’re crazy. It won’t hurt anything.”
The challenge in his tone sounds more playful than an order, and I stare at his outstretched hand, trying to work out if he’s joking or just not at all the man I expected. “It’ll reinforce that idea.”
He shrugs. Shrugs. “So?”
The breath that loosens from my lungs is shaky.
I take his hand anyway.
The space near the piano is small, intimate, and empty, not a single other person swaying to the music.
Harry’s hand settles at the small of my back, his fingers spreading wide as he pulls me against his chest. His other hand engulfs mine, warm and surprisingly soft, and I have to focus to steady my breathing.
We haven’t been this close since last night, and it’s like my brain won’t let me forget that little tidbit.
We move together slowly, small steps in time to the music, and I’m hyperaware of every inch of contact. The heat pulsing through his shirt and suit jacket only makes my head spin worse, his cologne invading my senses, his thumb tracing small circles against my spine.
“You’re tense,” he murmurs, leaning toward me just enough to breathe the words against my ear.
“People are watching,” I retort.
“Let them.” His fingers dig into my back through my dress, just enough to remind me they’re there — as if I needed it. “You’re my wife. We’re allowed to touch each other, Elena. Might be weirder if we didn’t.”
The word wife sends a shiver through me that has little to do with the air conditioning pumping from the vent above and everything to do with the way it sounds coming from his lips.
“You say that like you didn’t touch me all night,” I swallow, tilting my head back to look up at him.
The intensity in his eyes makes my breath stutter.
His jaw ticks. His gaze narrows. And for a moment, just briefly, I wonder if he’s going to kiss me again like he did yesterday on the pulpit, brazen and public and far too heated.
The thought should terrify me, but instead, it sends heat right down between my thighs.
“Careful,” he says quietly. “Keep reminding me of that and I’ll forget we have an audience.”
My cheeks burn, but I don’t look away. There’s something almost magnetic about the way he watches me, something that makes ridiculous assumptions roll through my head — like ones where I think I’m the only person he sees in the room, ones where I matter.
————
The eyes still linger on us as we finish our meal, but strangely, I care less than I did before. Maybe that was the point — maybe he wanted me to do something that dared people to look so it would feel less invasive when they did over something trivial, like eating a meal.
Or maybe he just wanted to get under my skin.
But as we walk back through the lobby, the playfulness leeches from him. A bellhop steps out of the private elevator across the room, carrying the same leather bag I’d seen up in the penthouse, and before the confusion can sink in, Harry’s stopping, turning to me.
“I need to head back to Highcourt Hall,” he says, glancing at the ceiling before locking eyes with me. “There are a few things I need to handle at the estate, and I need to get back to work.”
The words hit me like cold water. “Oh.”
I don’t know why a part of me assumed there would be a honeymoon, or even a honeymoon period, to an arranged marriage. I don’t know why it disappoints me that there isn’t one.
“I—”
“My assistant, Matthew, will arrange whatever you need. You can stay here as long as you want before heading to Manhattan.”
I blink. “Right.”
“You’ve got a few events coming up, right? You’ll be able to keep busy. You’ll be fine,” he says, each word measured, careful, deliberate.
The word fine sits heavy in my chest. Maybe Sarah was right.
“I’ll let you know when George surfaces,” he continues. His expression hardens. “Don’t hold your breath that it’ll be anytime soon.”
The tension from lunch has seeped back into everything, but this time, it's laced heavily with something that feels a lot like disappointment. I shouldn’t care, I should be happy to get some time to myself in a place I don’t hate, but the idea of being alone again puts me on edge.
I should want space, distance, time to wrap my head around everything that’s happened.
But I just feel like I’m being abandoned again.
Someone by the door, dressed in a black suit, waves at him. He nods back.
“Take care of yourself, Elena. Call me if you need anything.”
He leans in, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek, and I blink harder in confusion, everything feeling like it’s moving at two-times speed. We didn’t talk about this—
He takes a step back, and then another, and another, turning on his heel as his long strides carry him toward the revolving doors. I stand there watching him go, frozen in the middle of the marble floor on top of a gilded H, something hollow opening up in my chest.
Fuck. Fuck, I don’t want this.
This is temporary, though, a business arrangement.
He’s doing the right thing by giving me space, surely.
But watching his broad shoulders disappear through the revolving door makes me feel more isolated than I have in years, more alone than I felt yesterday walking down the aisle to a different man than I’d been expecting.
He disappears around the side of the building, the door still spinning lazily, people flowing around me — guests checking out and staff moving with purpose, life continuing on as though mine hadn’t been tilted completely off axis yesterday.
I know I should go upstairs, should pack my things, should call Matthew about arrangements to go to Manhattan.
I should start pretending this is all manageable, that I can compartmentalize being married to Harald Highcourt into neat little boxes that won’t mess with my head.
But I can’t move.
I close my eyes, trying to recenter myself, trying to find a version of myself that knows how to handle this situation with the grace and dignity that’ve been hammered into me before I could walk.
But I can’t reach her, and my pulse is pounding, and my breathing is shot, and I’m spiraling again, just like Sarah said, just like Sarah said—
Something warm wraps around the back of my head and pulls me forward, pressing my face back into warmth and the scent of wood and cinnamon, a hand wrapping around the small of my back and splaying wide.
My breathing stops.