5. Millie
MILLIE
The gala is at the Pierre, which means old money and older architecture, the ballroom dressed in white flowers and gold accents.
I arrive alone because LaToya insisted it would look better if Duncan and I were photographed meeting here, like we just happened to show up at the same event and couldn't stay away from each other.
The dress is custom Valentino, deep emerald silk that moves like water and cost enough to make me wince when I signed the approval.
My hair is down tonight, blown out in loose waves that took two hours and a team of three.
I'm wearing the diamond earrings my mother gave me when I booked my first real role, back when we both thought that was the peak.
Photographers line the entrance, a wall of flashing lights and shouted names.
I smile, turn, let them get their shots.
Someone asks who I'm wearing and I tell them.
Someone else asks if I'm here with anyone and I say I'm meeting friends, which is technically true if you count a fake boyfriend as a friend.
Inside, the room is already full. I recognize a Congressman, two tech CEOs, and at least four people from the Forbes 400.
This is a charity gala for pediatric cancer research, which means everyone here paid ten thousand minimum just to walk through the door.
The cause is good. The crowd is insufferable.
LaToya finds me near the bar, wearing burgundy and looking calm in the way that means she's already three steps ahead of whatever's about to happen.
"He's here," she murmurs, adjusting her earrings. "Northeast corner, talking to someone from the hospital board. He's with his friends, Cierra and Angelo D'Amico."
I don't turn to look. "How do I look?"
"Like a woman who's about to make every other person in this room irrelevant." She adjusts my necklace, which doesn't need adjusting. "Remember, you're performing inevitability. Like this was always going to happen and you're just letting it."
"Got it."
"And don't forget." She drops her voice lower. "He's going to be good at this. Better than you think. Don't let it catch you off guard."
I want to ask what she means by that, but she's already moving away, back into the crowd with the energy of someone who has five other clients to manage tonight. I take a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and sip it slowly, scanning the room.
Duncan is exactly where LaToya said he'd be.
He's wearing a black tuxedo that fits the way expensive things do, tailored close but not tight, and his hair is shorter than it was at lunch last week.
He's taller than most of the men around him, which makes him easy to track, and when he laughs at something the woman next to him says, I feel my stomach tighten.
He looks comfortable. At ease. Like he belongs here, which he probably does, considering his net worth could buy this hotel twice over.
I hate that I notice.
I'm halfway through my champagne when he sees me.
His gaze cuts across the room and locks on mine, and for a second neither of us moves.
Then he excuses himself from the conversation and starts walking toward me, weaving through clusters of people with the confidence that comes from never being told no.
I set my glass down on the bar and straighten my spine.
He stops about two feet away, close enough that I can smell his cologne—cedar maybe, with a hint of citrus underneath.
"You look incredible," he says.
"I know."
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "How long have you been here?"
"Ten minutes. You?"
"Twenty. I was starting to think you weren't coming."
"And miss our big debut? Please." I glance past him toward the woman he was talking to, who's now watching us with poorly concealed interest. "Who's your friend?"
"Cierra D'Amico. She's a huge sponsor for the children's hospital. She and her husband Angelo run their foundation together." He follows my gaze, then looks back at me. "She was telling me about a funding gap for the pediatric cancer unit. I might write a check."
"How generous of you."
"It's a good cause."
"And great PR."
"That too."
We stand there for a beat, the noise of the gala swelling around us. A waiter passes with a tray of hors d'oeuvres and Duncan waves him off without looking.
"So," he says. "How do you want to do this?"
"Do what?"
"This. The performance. Do we ease into it or go big?"
I consider the question. LaToya's voice is still in my head, reminding me that inevitability sells better than desperation. If we look like we're trying too hard, people will see through it. But if we look like we're not trying at all, they'll call it fake within a week.
"We ease into it," I say finally. "You stay close but not suffocating. We talk to people separately, then gravitate back to each other like we can't help it. Let the photographers catch us in moments that look candid."
"Okay."
"Duncan?" I meet his eyes, hold them. "Don't overdo it. I need you to be charming, but I don't need you to be a caricature. Just be… tolerable."
"Tolerable. Got it."
He's looking at me like he's trying to solve a puzzle, and I feel the urge to step back, to put more space between us. But I don't, because that would read as discomfort and discomfort isn't part of the plan.
"Let's start," I say.
We move into the room together, and the shift is immediate.
People notice. Conversations pause mid-sentence as heads turn, and I can feel the weight of a hundred gazes tracking us across the floor.
Duncan's hand brushes the small of my back, light and brief, just enough to signal familiarity without claiming ownership.
It's a good move. I hate that it's a good move.
We stop to talk to a couple I vaguely recognize from a fundraiser last year. Duncan introduces me, his voice warm but not performative, and when the woman asks how we know each other, he defers to me with a glance that lets me control the narrative.
"We went to high school together," I say, smiling in a way that suggests fond memories instead of mutual loathing. "Lost touch for a while, but we ran into each other a few weeks ago and started catching up."
"How amazing!" the woman exclaims, and I can see her already composing the story she'll tell at brunch tomorrow.
We move on. Duncan introduces me to a tech investor, a museum curator, and someone who apparently owns half of Brooklyn. I smile, laugh at the right moments, and let my hand rest on his arm twice when the photographers are close enough to catch it.
He's good at this, better than I expected.
He knows when to talk and when to listen, when to make a joke and when to let silence do the work.
He doesn't dominate conversations or talk over people, and when someone asks him about the leaked audio, he handles it with a a smooth honesty that I wasn't prepared for.
"I said something six years ago that I'm not proud of," he says. "I was young and stupid and trying to impress people whose opinions shouldn't have mattered to me. I've spent a lot of time since then trying to be better, and I'm still working on it."
The investor nods, satisfied, and moves on to safer topics. Duncan catches my eye afterward and I give him the smallest nod of approval.
He earned that.
An hour in, we end up near the silent auction tables, pretending to browse items we have no intention of bidding on. Duncan leans in slightly, his voice low enough that only I can hear.
"How am I doing?"
"You're doing fine."
"Just fine?"
"Don't fish for compliments, Ellington. It's unattractive."
He laughs quietly, ducking his head.
A photographer appears at the edge of my vision, camera raised.
I shift slightly, angling myself toward Duncan in a way that will photograph well, and he mirrors the movement without me having to say anything.
His hand finds my waist, settling there with a confidence that feels rehearsed even though we never rehearsed it.
The shutter clicks three times.
"How's that for tolerable?" he murmurs.
"You're pushing it."
But I don't move away.