Chapter 8
Elizabeth stood before the mirror in her private dressing room, smoothing down the line of her black velvet gown with the same precision she used when finalizing multi-million-dollar contracts.
Her earrings caught the light, diamond drops with an edge sharp enough to wound, a gift from a hedge fund board she’d saved from collapse.
She pinned them in with careful, practiced hands.
The room smelled faintly of white peonies and bourbon from the bottle she kept tucked behind the wardrobe mirror. Her reflection was glossy, impeccable, cold. That was the point.
Armor. Always armor.
Outside the frosted windows, snow was falling again, silent, perfect flakes that dusted the tall hedges lining the walk to the ballroom.
The charity gala was an annual Hale tradition, the kind of event society pages ate up: discreet wealth, old money elegance, just enough benevolence to cleanse the indulgence.
Elizabeth had co-hosted it every year since her grandfather passed, and she always wore black.
She never quite knew if it was for him or for herself.
A soft knock at the adjoining door interrupted her thoughts.
Riley. Of course.
Elizabeth cleared her throat and opened it.
Riley stood there in a deep green cocktail dress, one of the looks Elizabeth’s stylist had carefully picked for her the day before their flight, a dress meant to impress without overshadowing Elizabeth, perfectly tailored to make her look polished and confident.
It fit well, if a little too snug across the hips, and the satin shimmered when she moved.
Her hair was pinned loosely back, a few strands falling soft around her cheeks. She looked nervous. And stunning.
Elizabeth forgot how to blink.
“I, uh…” Riley smoothed her hands down the front of her dress, then tugged self-consciously at the neckline. “Are we sure this is black tie? Because I feel like I look like a festive throw pillow.”
“You look beautiful,” Elizabeth said before she could stop herself. The words came out low and unpolished, too honest.
Riley blinked. “Oh. Thank you.”
Elizabeth cleared her throat, retreating behind her usual mask. “It suits you. That shade of green.”
“Your stylist has shockingly good taste for someone who wears pantsuits every day,” Riley said lightly, trying to break the tension.
Elizabeth smiled faintly and gestured for her to come in. Riley stepped inside, and Elizabeth’s eyes were drawn to her bare arms, her collarbone, the little gold clasp of her necklace catching against her skin. Dangerous territory.
Elizabeth reached for her wrap, draped carefully over a chair. As she fastened it around her shoulders, Riley stepped closer.
“Wait, your collar’s folded funny,” Riley said, reaching up.
Before Elizabeth could respond, Riley’s fingers brushed her lapel, straightening the fabric with a tender, precise touch. Her hands were warm. Their eyes met, too close.
Elizabeth felt something in her stomach shift, a slow, unwelcome roll of heat. Riley’s brow furrowed slightly, like she felt it too.
“You ready for this?” Riley asked softly.
Elizabeth glanced down at the hand still lingering near her collarbone. “I’ve done it every year since I was sixteen.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Riley said, smiling just enough to hurt.
Elizabeth stepped back. “We should go.”
They walked down the long corridor that led toward the ballroom, the estate hushed and glittering around them.
Evergreen garlands wound along the banisters, lit by golden fairy lights that cast soft glows on the hardwood floors.
Their heels clicked in sync, hers sharp and confident, Riley’s slightly tentative.
As they neared the landing, Elizabeth slowed, falling half a step behind so she could look, just briefly.
Riley’s dress dipped low in the back, the curve of her spine framed by satin and candlelight—almost begging for Elizabeth to run her hand down her skin.
The part of Elizabeth that lived in boardrooms and spreadsheets had no idea what to do with this kind of longing.
They stopped just before the ballroom doors. Riley turned toward her, fidgeting with the clasp on her clutch.
“So,” she said. “We’re still pretending to be madly in love, right?”
Elizabeth met her eyes. “Convincingly, if possible.”
Riley rolled her eyes, but her smile was crooked. “I’ll do my best not to embarrass you in front of your high-society fan club.”
Elizabeth offered her arm.
Riley hesitated, just long enough to make Elizabeth’s pulse jump, then slipped her hand into the crook of Elizabeth’s elbow.
It was too easy. Too natural. Their bodies fit like they’d done this before.
As the doors swung open and the warm, golden sound of a string quartet floated out, Elizabeth told herself the same lie she’d been telling herself all week:
This is just for show. Just until the holiday is over.
But Riley’s fingers tightened ever so slightly on her arm.
And Elizabeth knew, with chilling clarity, that the lie was starting to fall apart.
The ballroom shimmered like something out of a snow globe.
Frosted glass chandeliers dripped light from the ceiling, reflecting off gilded place settings and crystal punch bowls.
Sleek catering staff wove through the crowd with silver trays, and laughter rang beneath the strains of a live string quartet nestled by the hearth.
Elizabeth scanned the room instinctively, tracking donors, nodding at familiar faces, calculating political value like a chessboard. But her focus kept slipping.
To Riley.
She was standing just off-center, a glass of champagne in hand, cheeks pink from the heat of the room. Someone was talking to her, a family friend, possibly an investor, and Riley was laughing at something he’d said, tipping her head back just enough that the column of her throat caught the light.
Elizabeth’s chest twisted. She hated that feeling. The helplessness of it. The knowing.
She was falling for her.
And it was completely unacceptable.
She turned her back to the crowd and focused on refilling her drink, reminding herself who she was. CEO of Hale Global, daughter of legacy, poster child of the American aristocracy. She didn’t do messy. She didn’t do impulsive. She certainly didn’t fall for employees she barely knew two weeks ago.
A waiter passed. She took a bourbon neat and downed half of it in one slow sip, ignoring the sting in her throat.
Behind her, the string quartet shifted into a jazzy version of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” Riley’s laugh rang again, God, it was like a tether, and Elizabeth closed her eyes, just for a second.
“You look like you’re plotting to devour someone whole,” came a low voice at her side.
Elizabeth opened her eyes. It was her cousin Madeleine, wearing a smirk and an emerald dress with feathers at the hem.
“Maybe I am,” Elizabeth said coolly.
Madeleine followed her gaze. “Ah,” she said, a little too knowingly. “The assistant.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved into a polite, controlled smile. “Not an assistant,” she said evenly. “My guest for the holidays.”
Madeleine tilted her head, studying Riley. “Interesting choice,” she said, faintly amused. “So different from what you usually bring home.”
Elizabeth’s smile didn’t waver. “I like variety,” she replied smoothly, letting just enough edge slip into her tone to hint that she was unbothered.
Madeleine clinked her champagne glass lightly against the rim of Elizabeth’s bourbon.
“Careful,” Madeleine said. “You’re staring at this one like it means something.”
Elizabeth turned away.
Across the room, Riley caught her eye.
Just for a second.
But something in Elizabeth’s chest cracked.
She didn’t know when Riley had become the center of everything, the axis on which the room turned. But she couldn’t seem to look away.
The event wore on, donors to greet, small talk to fake, photos to smile for.
At one point, they had to pose together beneath the massive garland-draped arch for the society photographer.
Riley’s hand slipped into the small of Elizabeth’s back, and Elizabeth nearly forgot what she was supposed to be pretending.
Elizabeth’s heels clicked quietly against the marble floor as she followed Riley through the glittering throng of guests, careful to stay a half-step behind as they moved to the grand dining room.
She felt every glance in the room, every whisper of silk and taffeta, and knew the family’s eyes were measuring them, measuring Riley.
Riley’s posture was too relaxed, her hands twisting the hem of her cocktail dress, and Elizabeth’s patience thinned.
She leaned close, voice just above a murmur, careful that no one else could hear.
“Your hand,” she said, sharp. “Stop twisting your fingers. It looks… nervous. Uncertain. Not tonight.”
Riley froze mid-step, then forced a nod. “Oh. Okay.” Her cheeks colored under the crystal chandeliers.
Elizabeth’s gaze swept over the crowd, noting who was watching, who was whispering. She leaned slightly closer, teeth barely clenched. “And your smile, don’t overdo it. It’s a glance, not a performance. They’ll notice if you try too hard.”
Riley blinked, eyes wide. “I-I thought—”
Elizabeth cut her off, crisp and cold. “No thought. Keep it simple. Polite. Controlled. Understood?”
“Yes,” Riley murmured, biting her lip. The hint of hurt in her voice was unmistakable, and Elizabeth hated it. Hated that she’d caused it, but she had no choice. Not here. Not now.
Elizabeth adjusted Riley’s elbow, nudging her into the right posture as they approached a small cluster of cousins and family friends. She forced a polite smile, exterior flawless, while her internal voice was a whip. Eyes forward. Keep her steady. No slip. Don’t let her ruin this.
One of the cousins leaned in, examining Riley with an almost imperceptible raise of the brow. Elizabeth’s jaw tightened. She caught Riley’s gaze, just for a moment, and saw the question there: Why are you being so cold?