Chapter 9 Tania
Tania
The dress Silas had made for me fits perfectly.
I smooth the fabric over my hips and check my reflection one more time. Navy silk, high neck, open back. It’s perfect for the gala we’re attending at the museum where I intern.
There are footsteps in the hallway. The guys must be ready to go.
I cap my lipstick as Silas appears in the doorway.
He stops and pauses there for three full seconds. “Good, you’re ready to go.”
I grin. “I am.”
His mouth curves. Not quite a smile, but close. “You look nice.”
Nice. Not beautiful. Not stunning. It’s the safest word he could choose, but his eyes say more than his mouth does.
He’s been colder since the hotel. Since we woke up wrapped around each other and pretended it didn’t happen. Then he found out about Callum, and the distance got worse.
He’s polite, of course. He asks if I need anything, makes sure Sandra knows my schedule, and checks that the car’s ready when I need it. But there’s no true warmth unless we’re in public or in front of his staff.
Evan keeps finding reasons to touch my shoulder, my hand, my back. Callum flirts relentlessly—grinning at me over breakfast, calling me Red, and cracking jokes that make me blush.
Silas doesn’t do any of those things. He doesn’t avoid me, but he makes sure we’re never in a room alone, never standing too close, and never talking about anything real.
Unless he needs people to believe we are married. This part of the relationship matters to him.
He motions me forward. “Let’s go.”
When he sees Sandra waiting by the door with my coat, his fingers find my elbow. The touch is only for show, but my pulse still kicks up.
Silas takes my coat from Sandra and helps me into it. He’s such a gentleman when he wants to be.
“Have a wonderful time,” Sandra coos, like we are heading off to prom.
“Thanks, Sandra.”
The driver has already pulled the car around by the time the elevator stops on the ground level. Silas’s palm settles between my shoulder blades as we walk. I slide into the car. He follows.
The museum is twenty minutes away. I spend the drive staring out the window, trying not to fidget. I’ve worked there for months, but I’ve never been to one of these galas. Interns don’t get invitations. We hear about them later, secondhand, from the curators who spent the night charming donors.
Tonight, I’m walking in on Silas Locke’s arm.
The car pulls up to the entrance, and photographers line the steps. Silas gets out first, buttons his jacket, and extends a hand. I take it.
The camera clicks as soon as the photographers see Silas. I keep my face neutral and let Silas guide me up the steps. His hand moves to my waist, warm through the silk.
The lobby is full of people I recognize. Board members. Major donors. Colleagues who’ve never spoken to me outside of passing me files or asking me to pull records from storage.
They turn when we enter, and I see the moment they register who I’m with. Their expressions show everything—surprise, curiosity, and whispered conversations behind champagne flutes.
Silas doesn’t acknowledge any of it. He leads me deeper into the crowd, and when a board member approaches, he introduces me without hesitation.
“This is Tania. My wife.”
The board member—Frederick Ashford, I’ve seen him in meetings—extends his hand. “Mrs. Locke. A pleasure.”
I shake it. “Please, call me Tania.” My last name is not Locke, but I don’t correct him. “I actually intern here.”
His eyebrows lift. “You do?”
“I specialize in Renaissance and Baroque art. But I’ve been helping with the new contemporary acquisitions.”
Interest sharpens in his expression.
We talk for ten minutes. He asks intelligent questions. I answer them. Silas stands beside me, not interjecting. When another couple joins the conversation, I shift to include them, discussing the upcoming Caravaggio exhibition and the authentication challenges.
By the time we step away, Frederick has handed me his card.
Silas’s fingers brush my lower back as we move toward the bar. “That conversation matters more than months of hard work. He’ll remember you now, and he has a lot of sway in the art world.”
I glance up at him. “Thank you.”
“You proved yourself.” He signals the bartender. “I just got you the introduction.”
The bartender pours champagne, and Silas hands me a glass. I take a slow drink, letting the realization settle. He gave me access. But I did all the work.
For the first time tonight, I don’t feel like just a decoration.
The evening becomes a blur of handshakes, and when the gala attendees learn that I intern at the museum, they ask questions about art history, authentication practices, and the museum’s acquisition strategy.
These influential people are looking to me for expertise. Not Silas.
No one dismisses me. No one treats me like arm candy. I feel like I belong.
Not because of Silas. Because I earned it.
Eventually, a major donor pulls Silas into a conversation that has nothing to do with art. I can tell it’s going to take a while.
I touch his arm briefly. “I’m going to look at the new exhibition.”
He nods. “I’ll find you.”
I slip away, weaving through the crowd toward the contemporary wing. The new installation has been something I’ve been excited about for weeks—a series of abstract pieces by an emerging artist.
The gallery is quieter here—fewer people. I stop in front of a canvas that’s mostly red and black, layered so thick with paint that I can see the texture from where I stand.
“Striking, isn’t it?”
I turn.
A man in his fifties stands there in a tailored suit. I don’t recognize him, but he carries himself like someone important.
“It is.” I keep my response neutral. “The artist doesn’t hold back.”
He steps closer, studying the painting. “No restraint. I like that.”
We talk about the piece for a few minutes. He’s knowledgeable and asks good questions. I relax into the conversation, treating it like networking.
He introduces himself. Donald Moriano. Major collector.
I tell him my name. Nothing else.
His eyes sweep over me. “Are you in the art world?”
“I’m finishing an internship here.”
“Ah.” His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “And are you here with anyone tonight?”
My spine straightens. “Yes.”
He smiles wider. “Well, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if I stole you away for one drink.”
Something in his posture changes, and now he’s standing closer to me than necessary.
“Thank you, but I’m not interested.”
He doesn’t step back. “You seem to know a lot about art. That’s impressive for an intern.”
“Thank you.” I give him a polite smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “My knowledge is how I earned the internship.”
“Beautiful and smart.” His eyes drag over me, slowly. Too slow. “You know, someone like you could do very well in this world. If you knew the right people.”
Revulsion coils through me, but I don’t respond.
“I could introduce you to collectors. Gallery owners.” He leans in slightly. “Open doors you didn’t even know existed.”
“I’m not interested,” I tell him again.
“No?” He smiles, but it’s not friendly anymore. “You’re young. Pretty. You probably think that working hard is enough. But it’s not. This world runs on connections. And the right kind of... attention.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Excuse me?”
“I’m offering to help you. Mentor you.” His gaze drops to my chest. Lingers. “You’d be surprised what opportunities open up when you’re willing to be... flexible.”
I go still. Not scared. Furious.
This man—this pillar of the museum world—is propositioning me. At my workplace. At an event he’s supposed to be supporting.
“Tania.” Sila’s voice stops me cold.
I turn. He’s three feet away. Everything about him is still. His hands. His shoulders. His face.
He takes a step toward me, doesn’t touch me, but positions himself between Donald and me. His presence fills the space.
“You’re done talking to my wife.”
“Mr. Locke.” Donald’s face drains of color. All of it. “Did you say your wife?”
“You heard me perfectly well.” Silas takes a step forward, not aggressively. The tone in his voice conveys everything he’s feeling. “You’re done.”
Donald’s stammering now. “I was having a conversation with her about the new exhibition.”
“You were propositioning her.” Silas’s voice drops lower. “Do you want to explain that to Frederick Ashford? To the board?”
“No. I apologize.” Donald’s eyes dart to me, then back to Silas. “I didn’t mean any offense.”
“Then what did you mean?” Silas tilts his head slightly. “When you told my wife she’d do well if she were willing to be flexible?”
Donald’s mouth works, but nothing comes out.
“She’s standing right here. Why don’t you elaborate about what you want from her?” Silas waits patiently for a response, as if he’s actually expecting one.
Donald’s eyes dart between us. “Mr. Locke, I apologize.”
“I’m not the one you owe an apology to.”
Donald swallows and turns to me. “Mrs. Locke, I apologize for any misunderstanding. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
I blink.
Silas takes his eyes off Donald and looks at me. Donald shifts his weight, ready to walk away.
“No.” Silas’s hand comes up and stops him, while he continues to hold my gaze. “She’s not finished.”
I realize what he’s doing. He’s not going to speak for me. He’s giving me the opportunity to stand up for myself.
“What you said was predatory.” My hands are steady at my sides. “You used your position here to make me uncomfortable because you assumed I had no power. You dismissed my education, my work, and reduced me to something you thought you could buy or pressure or manipulate.”
His face flushes red. “I didn’t—”
“You did.” I don’t let him finish. “And now you’re embarrassed because you got caught. But you weren’t embarrassed when you said it. You thought I’d accept it.”
His mouth is open, but no sound comes out.
“Now I’m finished,” I tell him. “Leave.”
He does. I watch him disappear into the crowd.
Now my hands start shaking. Not from fear. From adrenaline. From the realization that I did that.
Silas’s hand wraps around my waist, not pulling, but steadying. We walk away from the gallery, down a quieter corridor lined with administrative offices.
He doesn’t speak until we’re alone. “You handled that perfectly.”
“I needed you there,” I tell him.
“I know.” His hand drops from my waist. “You confronted him. I just made sure he listened.”
I exhale. “You gave me the confidence to do it.”
“You already had the confidence.” His index finger runs the length of my jaw. “You just needed to know you could use it.”
I lean into his touch for a second, and it hits me—how different this feels from being with the other two. The brothers might look identical. But what they give me isn’t even close to the same.
Callum makes me feel alive, and Evan makes everything feel easy. But Silas? He makes me feel powerful.
He studies my face. “You good to go back?”
I nod.
We head back to the main hall. The rest of the night unfolds in a blur of conversations and champagne. But I’m different now. More present. More confident.
By the end of the night, I could sleep for twelve hours. Or do this all over again tomorrow.
We head outside. Silas opens the door to our waiting car. I slide in before him. The driver pulls away from the curb, taking us back to the penthouse.
I lean back against the leather seat and close my eyes. When I open my eyes again after a few minutes, he’s watching me.
We are ten minutes from his home, and the car turns onto a quieter street. I move slightly, angling toward him. The dress pulls tighter across my hips. His gaze flickers down before snapping back up.
I let my hand rest on the seat between us, close enough to touch him. He doesn’t react, so I let my fingers brush the edge of his thigh. Light. Testing.
His hand closes around my wrist. His grip is gentle, but firm.
“I know something happened with Callum.”
I don’t deny it.
His grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go. “You’re beautiful. I enjoy spending time with you. But I’m not going to disrespect Ben like that.”
“So, we just keep pretending this isn’t real?”
“That’s exactly what we do.” The authority in his voice is unmistakable. “This relationship is fake. It stays fake.”
“You’re lying to yourself if you think this is still fake.”
“Maybe.” His eyes lock on mine. “But I’m not lying to Ben.”
I tug my wrist free. He lets me. Then I turn away, staring out the window.
The car slows. We are almost at our building.
Silas’s hand rests on his thigh, fingers spread. I want to reach for it and cover it with mine. And then make him admit that the line he’s drawing is bullshit.
I don’t act on that impulse, though. He won’t admit to anything.
But pretending gets harder every day. And he knows it.