Chapter 4
The flash of cameras was blinding—white-hot bursts that came too fast, too constant, like lightning that wouldn’t stop striking. Voices called from every direction, overlapping in a chaotic symphony.
“Over here!”
“Smile for us!”
“Is it true you’re engaged?”
Evie’s smile didn’t waver. Polished but untouchable. She could hear Lauren's voice in her head, drilling it in like a mantra. Her face hurt, but she didn’t care. This was her stage now, and she knew how to play it.
Her dress was a masterpiece. Midnight blue satin, smooth as poured ink, clung to her like it had been sculpted directly onto her body. The fabric hugged her wide, full hips with unapologetic boldness, following every curve and dip like it belonged there.
No shapeless draping, no hiding, no shrinking into the background. Her waist cinched in sharply, giving way to her hourglass frame before flowing out into a soft flare at the hem. Every move she made caused the fabric to shift like a liquid shadow, catching the camera flashes just right.
The neckline was bold but elegant—a plunging V that framed her chest perfectly without giving away too much. Just enough to make them stare.
Her collarbones caught the soft glow of the lights, her skin rich and deep like polished mahogany. Her arms, bare and smooth, hung loose at her sides, fingers flexing slightly to keep the nerves from showing.
Her hair was its own event. Thick, glossy curls framed her face like a crown, each one perfectly defined but wild enough to make a statement.
One stubborn curl rested just over her temple, and she left it there on purpose. Imperfect perfection. A reminder that she was real even in all this chaos.
Her earrings were gold, long, and sleek, brushing just past her jawline with every slight movement.
Her makeup was subtle but sharp—a soft bronzed glow on her cheeks, glossy lips lined to perfection, and brown eyes framed in the richest black liner that made every glance feel like a deliberate choice.
They were looking at her.
All of them. Staring. Whispering. Leaning into each other as if they were seeing something unexpected. Something they didn’t think belonged here but couldn’t deny was undeniable.
Her gaze stayed forward, her chin lifted just slightly higher than it needed to be. Confidence wasn’t something she wore; it was something she embodied. Her fingers rested lightly on the arm hooked around hers. His arm.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Please,” she murmured, tilting her head just slightly toward him. “I was built for this.”
She sounded calm, but she was anything but that.
The frenzy around her was making her anxious.
She’d always dreamt of the spotlight; she’d tried to reach it for far too long, but now, with all these cameras pointing at her, she wasn’t sure how to act.
She felt somehow frozen, overwhelmed by all the attention. And God, she hoped it didn’t show.
Her fingers flexed on his arm, gripping just a little tighter than necessary. Not enough for anyone to notice—except him.
“Don’t worry, darling,” he leaned in to whisper into her ear, “I’ve got you.”
Her heart kicked. Sharp. Sudden. Uninvited.
The crowd noticed, too.
The camera flashes came faster, more frantic, the soft clicks turning into a frenzied hum. Voices rose, sharper, more desperate.
“Look at them!”
“They’re so in love!”
“Lean in closer! Just one more shot!”
Their closeness was feeding them. Every tilt of his head toward hers, every subtle shift of her hand on his arm, every second they lingered too long in each other’s space. It wasn’t enough for the crowd—they wanted more.
The noise swirled around them, a fever pitch of voices and lights, but all she could focus on was him. The warmth of his hand on her lower back. The press of his suit against her fingers. The calm, steady weight of his presence.
Her grip on his arm loosened—not because she didn’t need it anymore, but because she didn’t want him to know she did. But his fingers curled slightly on her back, his touch firmer now like he knew anyway.
And somehow, that only made the crowd wilder.
They finally stepped inside, leaving the madness of flashing lights and the roar of voices behind.
Inside, it was calmer—not quieter, but calmer. Polished marble floors, towering floral arrangements, and tables draped in silk-white linens. Soft classical music floated from a quartet tucked in the corner. The scent of champagne and old money filled the air.
“Remind me,” she muttered, glancing up at him, “why people think this is fun?”
“Because they’ve never done it sober,” he said, his tone dry but amused.
Her lips twitched, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of laughing. Not yet. She glanced around the room, taking it all in. The eyes were everywhere. Every couple, every socialite, every power player with a drink in hand was watching them. Studying them. Judging them.
“Everyone’s looking,” she muttered, fingers still tight on his arm.
“They always do,” he replied, eyes forward, sharp and steady. “Smile like you’ve got a secret,” he repeated what the photographer had told them at the shoot.
Her gaze flicked up to him, her brows lifting. “You got a lot of those, huh?”
“More than you,” he shot back without missing a beat.
“Doubt it,” she said under her breath, but she let her face soften just slightly.
A waiter drifted by with a tray of champagne. Evie snatched a glass, raising it to her lips. “You’re not drinking?” she asked, side-eyeing him.
“Working,” he replied, eyes scanning the room like he was already ten moves ahead of everyone here.
“Boring,” she muttered, taking a sip. “You should try it sometime.”
“Being boring?” He glanced at her, one brow raised. “Doesn’t suit me.”
“No,” she said, eyeing him over the rim of her glass. “Losing control.”
His eyes lingered on her just a second too long. She didn’t blink. She didn’t look away. She’d learned not to.
“Careful, Monroe,” he said, low and quiet, like it was meant just for her.
“Always,” she replied, tossing back the last sip of champagne.
*****
James moved through the room, jumping from party to party, Evie by his side. She was magnetic, the kind of presence that commanded attention without effort.
The golden light from the chandeliers above danced across the soft fabric of her dress, making it shimmer with each step she took. Every tilt of her head, every subtle glance, seemed to draw eyes like moths to a flame.
James’s hand rested lightly on her back, a touch that was both possessive and protective, a silent reminder that she wasn’t navigating this room alone.
Around them, polished faces turned subtly in their direction, their glances filled with curiosity and calculation. He could almost hear their thoughts: Who is she? What’s their story? Are they as perfect as they seem?
This wasn’t just a crowd; it was an audience, hungry for any nuance, any sign that would confirm or unravel the image they’d so carefully constructed.
James could feel their stares, could sense their whispers blending into the background hum, but his focus remained sharp, his posture controlled. This wasn’t just an evening—it was a performance, and they were the headliners.
They cut through the room like they belonged there, their steps perfectly in sync, each movement calculated yet effortless. It was a scene meant to be remembered, a moment designed to leave an impression.
He knew the game well enough—the glances, the whispers, the curiosity. The room wasn’t just watching her; they were dissecting every moment, every touch, every look they exchanged. It was a spectacle, and they were the stars of the night.
But he wasn’t blind. He saw the way some eyes lingered a little too long, how a few smiles curved into something more than polite. He felt his jaw tighten, the possessive part of him flickering to life as he led her to another circle of people.
This one, of course, included Antoine Moreau. French. Charming. And entirely too much trouble.
“James,” Antoine greeted, his accent smooth, his handshake firm but lingering a fraction too long. “And you must be Evie,” he said, his gaze shifting to her with an intensity James didn’t like. “It’s a pleasure to meet the woman everyone is talking about.”
Evie gave a polite smile; one James knew could stop a room. “The pleasure’s mine,” she replied smoothly.
Antoine’s eyes lit up with appreciation, the kind that made James’s grip on her back tighten slightly.
“You are even more stunning in person,” Antoine continued, his tone bordering on flirtatious. “It’s rare to see someone so natural, so… captivating.” His gaze lingered a beat too long, and James felt his patience thin.
“Antoine,” James said, his voice cutting in with just enough sharpness to remind him who he was dealing with. “Evie is, indeed, remarkable. I’m lucky to have her by my side.”
Antoine gave him a knowing smile as though he’d caught the unspoken warning. “Ah, yes. Lucky, indeed.” Then his focus returned to Evie, his smile softening. “But I wonder, might I be luckier tonight? Could I steal you for a dance?”
For a brief moment, he felt Evie’s gaze shift to him, but he didn’t meet her eyes. His chest burned, a low, unfamiliar ache spreading as he realized how much he hated the idea of Antoine touching her, even for something as trivial as a dance.
His hand itched to tighten its grip on her back, to pull her closer, to make it undeniably clear to everyone watching that she was his—even if only for now.
Antoine’s brows lifted slightly, clearly caught off guard by the blunt refusal. But before he could recover, James straightened, letting his smirk return, cool and calculated.
“Because,” James said, his voice softening into something smoother, more dangerous, “I was just about to dance with my beautiful fiancée myself.”
The words hung in the air, deliberate and commanding. He finally glanced down at Evie, his gaze catching hers, daring her to argue. But instead of protest, he saw something flicker in her eyes—surprise, amusement, and maybe even a little challenge.