Chapter Three Sunny
“I am not your prisoner, Dylan.”
The words explode out of me before I can stop them, sharp and too loud in the gleaming expanse of his kitchen. My voice bounces off marble and glass and stainless steel like I’ve just cursed in a cathedral.
Across the island, Dylan goes very still. His hands are braced on the counter, sleeves rolled up, forearms corded with tension. The city glows behind him through the floor-to-ceiling windows, early evening light turning him into a silhouette made of hard lines and sharper edges.
“You done?” he asks, voice low.
“No,” I snap, because oh, I am so not done. “I have been here for less than twenty-four hours and you have already: one, confiscated my phone. Two, decided when I can leave your apartment. And three, tried to tell me what to wear.”
His jaw clenches. “I suggested what to wear.”
“You sent a personal shopper.” I fling an arm toward the garment bags hanging off the back of a barstool like they’re evidence in a trial. “To my temporary prison.”
His eyes flash. “Don’t be dramatic.”
I laugh, high and brittle. “Says the man who had my ex’s name ‘flagged’ with a private investigator.”
“Do you want me to unflag him?” Dylan pushes off the counter, coming around the island with measured steps. Every move is controlled, contained, like he’s walking into a negotiation and not toward a girl in his hoodie and fuzzy socks. “Tell my people to stand down? Tell security to let any charming psycho with a temper tantrum waltz through the lobby?”
I hate that that makes my stomach twist. Hate that a shameful little shiver of relief sneaks under my anger.
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you’re acting like.”
“I’m acting like a person,” I fire back, taking a step away from him on instinct. He notices; of course he notices. His gaze flicks down to my feet, then back up. “A person, not a… a project. Or a hostile takeover.”
His brows knit. “What the hell does that even mean?”
“It means,” I say, my throat thickening, “that I’ve spent the last year having every move monitored and every decision second-guessed, and I will not jump from one cage to another just because this one has a nicer view.”
Silence slams between us. For a second, I wonder if I’ve gone too far. If he’ll shut down, go icy, throw my words back in my face the way Trevor always did.
Instead, Dylan exhales slowly, like he’s letting air out of a tire before it explodes. He stops a few feet away, close enough that I can smell his cologne—clean and expensive, with a darker note underneath. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
“I am not him.”
The words are quiet. Deadly serious.
I swallow. “I know that.”
“Do you?” he presses. “Because you’re talking to me like I’m the guy who put his hands on you instead of the guy who opened his door in the middle of the night when you had nowhere else to go.”
Guilt crashes over me, hot and suffocating. I wrap my arms around myself, fingers digging into the soft cotton of his hoodie.
“That’s not fair,” I whisper.
“No.” His gaze softens by a millimeter. “It’s not.”
We stare at each other, a tug-of-war of wills and wounds. I shouldn’t poke the bear. I know better. But I am so tired—tired of being good, being agreeable, being quiet so no one gets mad.
I’m not quiet now.
“Then stop treating me like I’m made of glass,” I say. “Stop barking orders like I’m one of your interns.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he mutters.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” he says, annoyance sliding back into place, “that if one of my interns got a barrage of messages like you did last night, they’d be in the HR office having a game plan drawn up, not arguing with me about how ‘dramatic’ it is to care if they make it home alive.”
The breath leaves me in a rush. I open my mouth. Shut it.
I hate that he’s right. I hate it so much I want to throw one of his fancy knives at him.
His gaze tracks every emotion flashing across my face. “Sunny.”
“I know.” I blow out a long breath, shoulders slumping. “I know, okay? It’s just… a lot.”
He nods once. “I’m aware.”
We fall into a truce of heavy breathing and mutual glaring. I rub a hand over my eyes, smearing whatever mascara survived the previous meltdown.
“What time is your thing again?” I mumble.
“Gala,” he corrects automatically. “Seven. We’re leaving in forty minutes.”
The words make my stomach drop. Right. The gala.
My gaze flicks toward the garment bags like they’re wild animals waiting to pounce. “I still don’t see why I need to go.”
“Because I’m not leaving you alone here.”
“You have security downstairs, a building full of cameras, a PI, probably a secret panic room,” I say. “New York itself would have to fill out an application to get in here. I’ll be fine.”
He shakes his head. “If I walk out of this apartment knowing he’s out there and you’re here alone, I won’t focus on a damn thing. I might as well not show up at all.”
“So don’t.” I shrug, even though the idea of not going doesn’t sit right either. This gala is for some education nonprofit; I read the invitation on his counter earlier, pretending not to. “You’re Dylan Knight. Can’t you just write them a check with an extra zero and send your regrets?”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because my firm is one of the primary sponsors,” he says. “Because half my board will be there, and almost all of my investors. Because we’re in the middle of negotiations that affect hundreds of jobs. And because if I don’t show up, the story tomorrow is ‘Knight bails on children’s charity after scandal when best friend’s sister arrives at his door dripping wet.’”
I wince. “You make it sound so sordid.”
“Welcome to my life.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “They will turn anything into a headline if I hand it to them. Showing up tonight is damage control.”
“And bringing me is… what? A PR move?”
His eyes lock onto mine, something steely flaring there. “Bringing you is non-negotiable.”
Heat crawls up my chest. “Why?”
“Because if someone finds out you’re here, and you’re not with me, that’s a problem. Because if Trevor decides to escalate and follow you—and don’t even try to pretend he wouldn’t—you’re safer beside me than tucked into a corner of my couch. And because I want every camera in that room to see who you’re with if anything leaks.”
“Who I’m with?”
He nods once. “Me.”
The single syllable lands with stupid weight. I try to ignore the way my heart flips like it’s on a trampoline.
“It’s a charity gala, not a gladiator arena,” I say weakly.
“With my life?” he says. “Same thing.”
I let out a shaky laugh. The fight in me shrinks, folding in on itself. Underneath all the bossiness and arrogance is the simple, terrifying truth: he is trying to protect me. In the only way he knows how—like a hostile market. Identify threats, mitigate risk, control everything.
“I don’t know how to do this.” I gesture at the bags again. “The fancy dress thing. The cameras. Your world.”
He looks at me for a long beat, then jerks his chin toward the hall. “Good news. You don’t have to know how. You just have to put on the dress and let me worry about the rest.”
I bite back the automatic protest—because it sounds dangerously like trust—and give him a tight nod. “Fine. But if I fall on my face in front of a hedge fund, I’m haunting you.”
“You’re not going to fall.” He says it with the same certainty he uses when talking about markets. “Go get ready. Jenna said she texted you some makeup tips.”
I blink. “You talked to Jenna?”
“She called you three times this afternoon.” His mouth twitches. “She thinks I’m the devil.”
“She’s not entirely wrong.”
“Go,” he says, exasperated but faintly amused. “I’ll have someone send up a car in thirty minutes.”
I grab the garment bag with my name clipped to it—Sunny Emerson, written in neat, looping script—and retreat down the hall to the guest room.
As soon as the door shuts behind me, my bravado deflates. I lean back against the wood and close my eyes.
Trevor would hate this.
The thought comes unbidden, sharp and sour. He’d say I was being ridiculous. That I was dressing up to impress, that I’d embarrass him, that everyone would see right through me. He’d pick at my hair, my dress, my laugh until there was nothing left.
I shake off the ghost of his voice and unzip the bag. A soft, champagne-colored dress slides free, pooling over my hands like liquid moonlight. It’s gorgeous. It’s terrifying.
“You can do this,” I mutter to myself, forcing my lungs to cooperate. “It’s just one night. You’ve wrangled twenty preschoolers on free-play Friday. You can handle rich adults eating tiny hors d’oeuvres.”
I shower, doing my best impression of the makeup routine Jenna texted—“soft glam but innocent, like you accidentally wandered onto a red carpet while looking for the library ??.”
By the time I’m done, my nerves are buzzing like I drank three espressos. I slip into the dress, heart hammering. The fabric hugs my curves without being obscene, the neckline modest but flattering, the skirt flowing to my ankles with a slit that feels… bold. Very bold.
I stare at myself in the mirror. For a second, I don’t recognize the woman staring back—a softer, more polished version of me, eyes ringed in subtle gold, lips rosy, hair smoothed into loose waves over one shoulder.
I look… pretty.
I look like someone who could maybe, possibly belong next to Dylan Knight without dragging him down.
A knock on the door startles me. “Sunny?” His voice is muffled through the wood. “Car’s downstairs.”
My stomach swoops. I open the door.
Dylan stops mid-stride.
He’s in a black suit, tailored within an inch of its life, white shirt open at the throat. No tie. His midnight hair is tamed, mostly, and there’s the faintest hint of cologne clinging to his skin. For a second, his eyes sweep over me—slow, deliberate, starting at my bare toes and traveling up the length of my dress. Heat follows the path of his gaze, licking up my legs, my waist, my chest.
He swallows. Just barely.
“You clean up nice,” I say, because if I don’t say something, I might combust.
“Yeah,” he says, sounding oddly rough. “So do you.”
My face goes hot.
He clears his throat, looking away like he’s rebooting. “Ready?”
No.
“Yes,” I lie.
He offers me his arm. “Let’s go cause a scandal for a good cause.”
The car smells like leather and money. I sit stiffly, fingers tangled in the skirt of my dress, as the city blurs past the tinted windows. Dylan scrolls through his phone with his free hand, the other resting on his thigh. Every few seconds, he glances at me like he’s making sure I haven’t vaporized.
“Okay,” he says finally, locking his phone and turning toward me. “Ground rules.”
I groan. “More rules?”
“Last set,” he promises. “For tonight, anyway.”
I narrow my eyes. “For tonight?”
“Rule one,” he continues as if I haven’t spoken, “you stay where I can see you. If someone pulls you into a conversation, I want you within line of sight.”
“I’m not going to wander off into the hedge-fund forest,” I mutter.
“Rule two,” he goes on, “if anyone makes you uncomfortable, you tell me. Immediately. I don’t care if it’s a waiter or the chairman of the board.”
“Dylan—”
“I’m serious, Sunny.” His voice drops, eyes locking onto mine. “You don’t have to smile through it or be polite or worry about being ‘nice.’ You look at me, and I’ll handle it.”
Something inside me melts at the certainty there. No hesitation. No doubt. Just: I’ll handle it.
“Okay,” I say softly.
“Rule three,” he adds, a hint of something darker tightening his mouth, “if—when—someone mentions the rumors about us, I talk. You don’t answer anything you don’t want to. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”
“Rumors?” My pulse skitters. “What rumors?”
He hesitates. “The ones that tend to crop up when a woman shows up at my door and doesn’t leave right away.”
I glare. “Has that happened before?”
He smirks, quick and humorless. “You don’t want that answer.”
Jealousy flares, hot and unwelcome. I squash it.
“I can handle myself,” I say, but it comes out more defensive than I intend.
“I know you can,” he says. “But you don’t have to. Not tonight.”
The car slows, turning onto a street lined with flashing lights and expensive cars. My stomach tightens as I catch a glimpse of the venue ahead—an old stone building wrapped in twinkling lights, red carpet unfurled across the sidewalk. A wall of cameras waits at the entrance, lenses glinting like a row of watchful eyes.
Panic flickers in my chest. “I thought this was, like, a charity dinner. Not the Oscars.”
“It’s both,” Dylan says dryly. “Welcome to Manhattan philanthropy.”
The car stops. A valet opens Dylan’s door; cool air rushes in, carrying the murmur of the crowd and the staccato pop of camera flashes.
Dylan steps out first. For a second, everything outside seems to pause, attention snapping to him like iron filings to a magnet. He straightens, shoulders rolling back, slipping into the persona I’ve seen on magazine covers—Dylan Knight, ruthless, untouchable, perfectly at ease in chaos.
Then he turns and holds out a hand for me.
My heart lodges in my throat.
I place my fingers in his. His palm is warm, solid, swallowing mine as he helps me out of the car. A flare of flashes hits us immediately, bright enough to make me squint. The noise ramps up—voices calling his name, cameras clicking, the low hum of curiosity turning sharp when they see me.
“Who’s she?”
“Is that the sister?”
“Dylan, over here!”
The questions pepper the air, but Dylan doesn’t flinch. He tucks my hand into the crook of his arm like I belong there and starts up the carpet with long, easy strides.
My feet feel wobbly in the elegant heels they bought to go with the dress. I focus on putting one foot in front of the other, on breathing, on not letting my panic show up in high definition for tomorrow’s gossip feeds.
“Relax,” he murmurs out of the side of his mouth, his arm a solid line against my side. “They can smell fear.”
“Super comforting, thank you,” I whisper back.
We’re almost to the entrance when it happens.
A reporter leans forward from behind the rope, microphone outstretched. She’s sleek and polished, hair perfect, smile bright. Her eyes, though, are sharp as razors.
“Dylan!” she calls. “Care to comment on the rumors?”
Here we go.
“Not tonight,” he says smoothly, not even slowing down. “We’re here for the kids.”
“But your guest isn’t one of your usual companions,” she persists, gaze flicking over me like I’m a new flavor she wants to sample. “Sunny, is it? Are the engagement rumors true?”
I trip over a step, heat blasting into my face. Engagement rumors?
Dylan’s grip on my hand tightens. “We’re done,” he tells her, voice cooling a few dozen degrees.
“Come on, Dylan,” she coaxes, leaning in a little more. “Just one quote. You can’t blame people for being curious. Your investors, the board, your best friend—does Ethan approve of you dating his little sister?”
The air goes thin. The world narrows to the press of Dylan’s arm and the weight of a thousand eyes.
I feel it building in him before I see it—a surge of anger, protectiveness, something coiled and barely leashed. His jaw flexes, his shoulders bunch. He turns, just enough to face the reporter fully, dragging me with him.
For a second, his expression is pure ice. Then, very slowly, it melts into something more dangerous. Something possessive.
“You want a quote?” he says.
The reporter’s smile widens. The microphone lifts higher, a hungry metallic flower reaching toward him. Somewhere near the rope, a boom mic dips closer, fuzzy head aimed right at us.
Every instinct I have screams to pull back, to stay quiet, to disappear.
He doesn’t let me.
His hand slides from my arm to my waist, fingers splaying over the fabric of my dress like he’s staking a claim. He tugs me closer, our bodies nearly flush, and dips his head until his lips are at my ear.
Except he’s angled just enough that his voice carries.
“If you were my wife,” Dylan says, low and lethal, “I’d protect you—for real.”
The words pour over my skin like molten metal. My breath stutters, knees going weak. The world erupts—flashes, gasps, frantic shouts.
It’s only when I see the reporter’s eyes go round and hungry, when I catch the telltale red light on the microphone body, that I realize it.
The mic is live.
And every single person on this carpet just heard him.