Chapter 15 – Tessa
Chapter Fifteen
Tessa
My heart still hasn’t decided what it’s supposed to be doing. Beating too fast feels wrong, but stopping altogether might be worse. I keep staring out the window, pretending the trees are worth looking at, when really, I’m trying not to replay what happened earlier.
I shouldn’t have let it go that far. I told myself it was strategy, that selling this fake relationship meant leaning into it. But somewhere between unzipping my bag and pulling that dress over my head, I stopped acting.
The tension between us didn’t feel rehearsed. It felt old and familiar. Every glance, every silence felt like something we left unfinished.
Now, my skin is too warm, and my throat is tight. The air in the car feels heavy. I shouldn’t care what he saw, but part of me still wants to know if it meant anything to him. If any of it did.
The road curves ahead, and the Montclair Estate comes into view—tall windows, perfect symmetry. It looks expensive, and untouchable. My pulse stumbles as I stare at it. I tell myself it’s not fear, just adrenaline. It’s always easier to call it something else.
“Try to relax,” Rowan says quietly, eyes on the road. His voice is calm, but the tone leaves no room for argument.
“I’m fine,” I lie, because the truth sounds weak.
The gates open ahead of us, and my hands clench in my lap. I’m not fine. But there’s no turning back.
We pull up behind a line of cars waiting for the valet. My pulse still hasn’t slowed. Rowan parks and cuts the engine.
He gets out first. I take a breath and reach for the handle, opening the door before he can. He’s there anyway, offering his hand. I take it without thinking, my palm unsteady against his. His grip is sure, the kind that doesn’t waver, and for a second, it steadies me.
I step onto the pavement, adjusting to the heels I practiced walking in all week. His hand moves to my waist, a light touch, guiding. I can feel the warmth of it through the dress, and the small contact pulls my body into focus.
The valet approaches. He’s carrying Waffles’s carrier.
“Ma’am,” he says, setting the carrier gently in front of me.
The sound from inside is soft but familiar—one short whine, then silence. My chest loosens for the first time in hours. I crouch down, unzipping the top halfway. Waffles’s head pokes out with his nose twitching.
“Hey, it’s okay,” I whisper. My voice shakes, but he doesn’t seem to mind. I lift him carefully, holding him against my chest. His body is warm and grounding.
Rowan doesn’t say anything, just waits. His hand stays at my waist until I shift Waffles into one arm. When I reach for Rowan again, he threads his fingers through mine without hesitation. The movement is smooth and practiced.
My stomach flutters, and I hate that I feel safer with his hand steady in mine, Waffles pressed against me, the world temporarily balanced.
I focus on the estate ahead. The doors are tall and perfectly centered, the kind that make you question whether you deserve to walk through them. My throat feels tight again, but I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin.
“You gonna tell me what I’m walking into?” My voice sounds quieter than I mean for it to.
“Sharks. In pearls.”
I let out a short laugh that sounds too thin to pass as confident. “Let me guess. Networking disguised as leisure?”
“And judgment disguised as hospitality.”
“That tracks.” I glance at the doors again. “And you? What are you supposed to be disguised as?”
“Exactly what they want to see.”
“Which is?”
He looks down at me, eyes steady. “Someone safe. Settled. Sane.”
I lift my brow. “One out of three isn’t bad.”
He doesn’t react. The silence stretches, and the weight of it makes my pulse quicken again.
Then his voice lowers, quiet enough for only me. “Don’t trust anyone here.”
“Why not?”
“They collect weakness,” he says. “And spend it later.”
I swallow hard. My thumb rubs small circles against Waffles’s fur, more for me than for him. “Sounds exhausting.”
“It is,” he says, and for a second, there’s something in his voice that almost sounds like truth.
I nod, shifting Waffles a little higher in my arms. His head rests under my chin. My free hand stays in Rowan’s. Together, we start toward the doors.
The woman in black opens them before we reach the top step. “Mr. King. Welcome to Montclair.”
My stomach turns over, but I hold on tighter to whatever courage I can still find.
The room is too bright, and full of people who look like they were born knowing how to belong. Linen suits. Pastel dresses. I can feel every gaze skim over me and keep moving, already deciding I don’t fit.
Waffles shifts in my arms with a quiet huff, pressing his head against my chest. His body trembles once before he settles.
“Rowan,” a man says, stepping forward. He grips Rowan’s hand. “Glad you made it.”
Rowan returns it easily, his expression steady. The man’s eyes flick to me, down to the dog, then back to Rowan. I know the look. It’s the kind people give when they’re trying to figure out what something costs.
“And this must be…?” he prompts.
“Tessa,” I say before Rowan can answer. My smile feels practiced, but it holds. “Rowan’s better half. Depending on the hour and the class schedule.”
A few people laugh. One woman in pearls presses her glass against her lips to hide hers. Rowan’s hand finds my waist, his touch light but certain. It’s enough to remind me not to push too far.
I lean into him slightly, keeping my balance and my composure. The weight of his hand steadies me, though I wish it didn’t.
“Rowan never mentioned you,” says a woman with silver hair and eyes that don’t blink enough. She studies me.
“That’s because I’m his best-kept secret,” I say, turning toward Rowan. “You wouldn’t believe the nondisclosure agreement I had to sign. Especially the part about his midnight skincare routine.”
The group laughs again, a few of them too loudly. Rowan’s thumb moves once along my back. The gesture is familiar, and it pulls heat to my throat before I can stop it.
The woman’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “And what year are you, dear?”
“I’m in my second year of law school,” I answer. “Trying to finish without collapsing or disappointing my professors. It’s a fine line.”
That earns a small chuckle from the man beside her. “And yet you’ve managed to land Rowan King. He’s been dodging plus-ones for years.”
“I wore him down,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Persistence works better than charm.”
A quick glance at Rowan shows something flickering behind his eyes before it disappears. I can’t tell if it’s amusement or something angrier.
“Then you must know all his weaknesses,” someone says from the edge of the circle. Their tone carries interest that doesn’t match their smile.
I hold the man’s gaze for a heartbeat, my stomach tightening. The air shifts around us. Everyone is waiting to see if I’ll answer. I can feel Rowan watching me, waiting, as well.
I take a sip of champagne, pretending to think it over. “He owns more hair products than I do,” I say, letting my voice carry just enough to be heard. “And he travels with them.”
A few people laugh. Rowan doesn’t. His eyes slide to mine. “You use them.”
“Only because yours work better.”
His jaw ticks. “You could ask before stealing.”
“I like the risk,” I whisper.
He exhales through his nose, the faintest shake of his head. “You’re exhausting.”
“You like it.”
“I tolerate it,” he mutters.
I grin, keeping my eyes on the partner across from us. “He says that about everything he enjoys.”
“She says that about everything that gets her in trouble,” Rowan replies, his tone flat enough to make the group laugh again.
I can feel the warmth of his hand at my waist, the subtle flex of his fingers as he reins himself in. It’s enough to make my pulse skip.
“She’s trouble,” he adds, his voice low enough that only I catch the undercurrent in it.
“And yet you keep showing up,” I whisper back.
“Bad habit.”
“Want me to break it for you?”
He looks down at me, expression unreadable. “You couldn’t if you tried.”
The air feels heavier now, and I’m the one who breaks eye contact first. Someone nearby clears his throat, amused. “You two should stay for tea tomorrow. Croquet on the lawn. partners versus candidates.”
“I want the first swing,” I say immediately.
Rowan’s hand tightens at my waist. “God help whoever stands in front of you.”
“Maybe you should,” I say lightly. “Seems safer.”
“Doubt it.” His tone is dry, the corner of his mouth barely moving.
The partners laugh again, and the conversation shifts toward firm business—London expansion, mergers, things I only half hear. I nod at the right times, pretending to listen, but my focus is on the weight of Rowan’s hand and the warmth of his breath when he leans in.
Then someone says it.
“Of course, we run full background checks. You can’t be too careful about reputation.”
My chest tightens. I force my hand to stay steady around the glass, even though my pulse spikes.
Rowan doesn’t move, doesn’t look away from the group. His thumb strokes once against my back, light and deliberate. When I glance up, he’s already watching me.
“Of course,” he says. “Integrity’s everything.”
It sounds effortless.
The partners nod and move on, satisfied. I take a slow breath, trying to unclench my jaw.
Rowan still hasn’t looked away. His tone softens, but only slightly. “Relax. They’re not talking about you.”
I manage a small smile. “You sure?”
“No,” he says quietly, dry as ever. “But if they are, they won’t find anything.”