Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DAPHNE
I will never understand why Hollywood glamorizes galas. They’re boring as hell between the small talk, the bland hors d'oeuvres, and the string quartet playing lifeless classical music. I’ve been to so many, they blur together, and nothing about this one stands out.
Mom’s manicured claws grip my arm as she tries to drag me to one of the tables.
“Brent’s here,” she hisses with her poised smile. “Go speak with him.”
“I said I’d talk to him tonight,” I remind her.
“I didn’t say it would be on your timeline.
” Yanking my arm out of her grasp, I stomp in the opposite direction.
I didn’t need to even see Brent. My stomach rolled, ready to be sick in the middle of the gala, like my Spidey senses knew there was trouble in that direction.
Mom keeps pace behind me, smiling and nodding at people whom I whiz past without a single glance.
“Do not cause a scene, young lady.”
“Then stop following me, mother.” My cerulean blue dress swishes with my steps, and my silver heels clack over to the bar—the only part of the evening I’m interested in. When Dad throws an event, he doesn’t skimp on champagne.
With a fresh glass of bubbly in hand, I leave my mom to whichever brown-nosing senator’s wife is at the bar and make my rounds.
My hopes of finding a friendly face grow dimmer with each step as geriatric senators nod at me with approval that makes me want to flip their whiskey glasses right out of their liver-spotted hands.
Wives pout at my cleavage in distaste. Sorry, ladies, but it’s not my fault I was blessed with amazing tits that look phenomenal in a halter.
Honestly, I look like a million dollars tonight. Dressing up in designer dresses and having my hair and makeup professionally done to my tastes are one silver lining of these events.
Someone taps the microphone on stage. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” Everyone freezes like they’re playing red-light-green-light as the MC thanks everyone for attending and donating to Dad’s campaign.
Mom appears at my side like a film noir villain. “I have a surprise for you.”
Shit. I never liked Mom’s surprises.
“Do I want to know?” I ask.
“You’ll find out soon enough.” She smirks like she’s one-upped me.
Anger buzzes against my skin like a hive of wasps. What is she plotting?
“Before we begin tonight’s silent auction,” the MC says. “I’d like to kick off the evening with our dance auction.”
Dance auction? That’s never part of these events.
“Gentleman, please pull out your wallets. The ladies who have volunteered tonight will be auctioning their first dance of the evening.”
Wait… shut the fuck up.
My stomach lurches. Mom’s shit-eating grin is so wide she looks like a great white shark ready to chomp a bite out of me.
“You didn’t.” I can’t keep the dread and accusation out of my voice.
“It’s for a good cause, Daphne.”
“You call Dad’s campaign a good cause?” I snap in a whisper so no one can overhear our disagreement.
Mom smirks as she directs her attention to the stage. “There could be people watching, young lady. Watch your face.”
Watch your face. Mom’s way of saying to keep a neutral expression. Never show your cards. Don’t let the world see your resting bitch face.
“We’ll start tonight’s auction with the lovely Miss Blaire Weaver.”
A woman about my age walks onto the stage, waving her hand like she’s Miss America, and comes to a halt beside the MC. Her strawberry blond hair is curled like a crown on top of her head, and her smile is so white, she could blind someone if they pointed a laser at her teeth.
And she’s smiling like this is fun.
“Let’s start the bidding at one thousand dollars.” Dozens of hands shoot up in the air. Many of them wrinkled and covered in brown spots with gnarled knuckles and paper-thin skin.
I’m not ageist, but I don’t want some seventy-year-old man buying me tonight. Not even for one dance. The thought has my stomach rolling.
A few minutes later, Blaire is sold off for twenty-three thousand dollars like a prized pig. She trots her hooves off the stage, only to be replaced by Mrs. Ainsley Slocum, who gets bought by her husband for a mere eight thousand dollars.
Why are they subjecting us to this ridiculous level of embarrassment?
“Next, we have Miss Daphne Fox, America’s First Daughter.”
“If you don’t go up there, we’re cutting you off, even if you talk to Brent.” Mom hisses as she pushes me closer to the stage.
My feet move of their own accord because the rest of me is too numb and terrified to flee. Soon, spotlights hit me, heating the air as hands fly up and numbers are called out.
“That’s twenty thousand, do I hear twenty-one?”
“Twenty-five,” someone shouts toward the front of the stage. A voice that sends icy chills straight through my bones.
Even from the blinding stage light, I make out Brent smiling up at me—a smile that I once thought was so damn charming.
But I know what kind of person is hiding behind that smile, and it’s taking every ounce of self-control I have not to dart off stage.
Brent’s not the type of person to publicly support my dad, but he’d happily make a spectacle out of buying back his ex-girlfriend for the evening.
And I have a feeling he wouldn’t let me get away with only dancing.
God, I’m going to be sick on stage.
“That’s twenty-five, do I hear thirty?”
“Thirty thousand.” An older gentleman on the other side of the crowd raises his hand. I’ll take liver spots over the alternative.
“Thirty-five,” Brent calls out.
Jesus H. Christ, this isn’t happening.
“Forty,” the old man challenges back.
“Fifty,” Brent shouts to the MC.
“That’s fifty thousand. Do I hear fifty-five?”
Please say yes. Please!
The old man shakes his head in defeat.
“That’s fifty thousand going once.”
Oh, God no. Please, not Brent.
“Fifty going twice.”
Shit. It’s happening.
“One hundred thousand.” A familiar voice rings like a gong from the edge of the crowd. Everyone’s eyes whip around.
And a pair of warm brown eyes gaze at me, before Tristan’s smile beams up at me, and he gives me a wink that says, ‘I’ve got you.’
I could cry with relief.
“Sir, the current bid is fifty-five,” the MC reminds him.
“And I said one hundred thousand.” Tristan’s voice rings clear, and murmurs sweep across the room.
“That’s, um. That’s one hundred thousand.” The MC sounds unsure, but collects himself as he says. “Do I hear one-hundred and five?” The MC turns to Brent, whose frown is as hard as stone, before he shakes his head no.
“One hundred thousand going once. Twice. Sold.” The MC hammers his gavel onto the podium, and I run off stage before my knees buckle under me.
The MC murmurs the next lady’s name as I grab a fresh glass of champagne from a waiter with a swift thanks and step out of the main ballroom.
The lobby is empty, with everyone else lingering around the auction. Even in the open room, I struggle to catch my breath.
Tristan’s here. In disguise. His voice. God, I could recognize his voice anywhere, through any disguise.
“Hi, Princess.”
From behind me, his voice wraps around me, coating me like mist. Even with the colored contacts, the wig that’s a few shades of brown too light, and the fake nose that looks surprisingly real, his voice vibrates something in the marrow of my bones I can’t separate.
“You… you’re here. I didn’t think you’d show up. I’d hoped, but...” My voice trails off with unspoken words, and Tristan’s smile softens.
He strolls over, taking long steps to close the gap between us. Without hesitation, he cups my cheek and leans lower, his lips brushing against mine before our lips seal in a kiss that has my heart thumping against my ribs.
All too soon, Tristan ends it, and as the chandelier above his head twinkles, I remember where we are and who is here. I should care, but I don’t. I don’t give a fuck who sees me kissing Tristan, because it’s no one’s business. Not even the President’s.
“I will always find you, Princess.”
The slight growl in his voice leaves me breathless as he circles his arm around me and presses a palm to the small of my back, guiding me out of the lobby, past another door, and into an unoccupied banquet hall. The chandeliers are off, but outdoor lights illuminate the room in a soft white glow.
With the shock wearing off, I can clearly see how his black suit contours every hard line of his body, from his broad shoulders to his trim hips and thick thighs.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
Tristan chuckles as he releases me to shut the door.
“It was in your calendar,” he admits with a sheepish grin as he rubs the back of his neck, his suit jacket lifting with the movement.
“I wanted to see you tonight.” He closes the gap between us as my back presses against the wallpaper.
His arms rest on either side of my head, and the smoked bourbon scent of his cologne engulfs me.
“Daphne, I want to hate you. To despise you. It would make this so much fucking easier, but I can’t stop thinking about you.
Dreaming about you. There’s a connection that’s bone-deep, like you’re in my DNA and make up some part of me.
I can sense when you’re nearby, when you’re in trouble.
Tell me you couldn’t sense it the moment you heard me tonight, even if you couldn’t see me. ”
All I can do is nod. Because he’s right. There’s something that’s pulling me towards Tristan, like we’re magnets designed for one another.
Tristan lifts his thumb under my chin and tilts my head up to gaze into those soft, fake brown eyes.
“And that connection, Daphne Fox, is why I promise that I will always find you. Because you know this feels right.”