Chapter 17 – Tessa
Chapter Seventeen
Tessa
My heels sound louder than they should. Or maybe it’s just that Rowan’s walking too close.
He hasn’t said a word since the elevator.
I haven’t either.
Not because I don’t have anything to say, but because if I start, I’ll either throw up or pick a fight.
Waffles is back in the suite, tucked under a blanket. Before we left, I told him that if I don’t come back, do something petty in my honor. He simply blinked at me.
The elevator opens straight into the dining room. Everything gleams. Polished wood, perfect lighting, laughter that doesn’t sound real. The kind that fills a room and dares you to belong in it. Every woman here could headline a law journal. Every man looks like his trust fund has opinions.
And then there’s us.
Rowan touches the small of my back—barely. Just pressure, steady and firm. A quiet reminder that this is part of the act. I’m supposed to smile. To look like I belong here.
Someone near the buffet murmurs, “She’s gorgeous.”
Another voice: “She’s the one from undergrad, right?”
A pause. Then softer: “She looks… expensive.”
A whisper, sharp enough to cut, “I heard she used to be at Havemeyer. Before the—”
“Shhh.”
My lungs freeze. My body goes rigid. Every word sinks in, one by one, until I can’t tell if the room’s shrinking or I am.
Before the what? Before the suspension? Before I lost everything because of one stupid file?
They know.
Dammit, they know about the leak. About the notes. About the reason I’ll never get near a client again if this spreads.
If Hale he’s been protecting me for months. Maybe longer.
“Now breathe,” he says, voice a little lower, a little rougher. “Or someone’s going to think I proposed.”
That pulls a shaky laugh out of me.
I nod, just once. He straightens, smooths his expression back into marble, and turns to greet the next partner approaching us with a sharp smile.
I do what I’ve always done best.
I pretend I’m fine.
Because Rowan King is already handling everything I’m afraid of.
And somehow, that scares me most of all.
“Rowan,” the man says warmly. “Good to see you.”
“You, too, Alan.”
“And this must be...?”
“Tessa,” I say, extending my hand before he can call me “the girl.”
His eyes crinkle. “Ah, yes. We’ve heard.”
Perfect. I love that for me.
I smile sweetly. “Don’t believe everything you hear. Just the accurate parts.”
He laughs.
Someone snaps a photo.
I flinch instinctively, but Rowan’s hand is already there. Subtle pressure on the small of my back.
We keep moving, gliding through clusters of associates and partners and people. The room is all cream drapery and chandelier lighting designed to flatter exactly no one, but Rowan walks through it like he doesn’t give two shits. People move aside for him and study me.
Every time someone introduces themselves, I smile. I ask polite questions. I sip champagne and pretend I’m not cataloging which fork is for what and how many times Rowan’s jaw flexes every time someone calls me charming or surprising.
(Answer: too many. The man could chew through marble right now.)
Eventually, we’re escorted to our table. Not at the center, but close enough to suggest favor without arrogance. Placement is politics here. Our name cards sit beside embossed menus and napkins folded with surgical precision.
I take my seat beside a woman named Olivia—perfect blowout, an Hermès bracelet, and an upper lip that looks suspiciously plump. She leans in, squinting just slightly.
“You look incredible. Honestly, what have you had done? Skin like that isn’t natural after twenty-three.”
I blink. Smile sweetly. And lie through my teeth.
“Oh, just the usual—snake blood facials, cryotherapy, and a minor deal with the devil.”
Across the table, Rowan chokes on his water. Chokes. The great and powerful Rowan King, momentarily undone by one sentence and my complete disregard for legal decorum.
I nudge his shin with mine under the table. He glares.
Olivia claps her hands. “I knew I liked you.”
A waiter sweeps in and announces the first course. The plates arrive—tiny, elegant, pretentious. I’m staring at a vertical smear of something pink, an edible flower, and a portion of fish that looks confused.
It smells like butter and expensive pepper.
“You’re doing well,” Rowan murmurs as he cuts into his dinner with methodical grace, watching every interaction I have from across six inches of linen.
I glance at him. “You sound surprised.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re lying.”
He pauses. And then, quieter—maybe even sincere, which is horrifying, “I’m... not entirely surprised.”
That’s it. That’s all he says. But somehow, it sticks.
Before I can process whatever emotional minefield that was, someone new slides into the seat across from us.
“Rowan,” the guy with the smug smile says. “About time they let you out into polite society.”
Rowan’s posture shifts.
“Camden,” he replies.
Ah. Camden.
Camden Price, according to the name card and the aura of tax evasion. He’s all sleek hair and curated tan.
“And you must be…?” Camden turns to me, eyes slow.
“Tessa,” I say, offering my hand with a smile sharp enough to slice citrus.
“Well, Tessa, you’re the most surprising thing I’ve seen tonight. And I don’t say that lightly.” He leans forward, voice low, charming in the way cologne-induced migraines are charming. “I always assumed Rowan’s taste skewed more… trashy. But this”—he gestures at me—“is delightful.”
Across the table, Rowan’s hand tightens slightly on his water glass.
I don’t take my eyes off Camden. “That’s so sweet. Did you practice that line in the mirror, or was it just instinct?”
He grins, undeterred. “Oh, I like her.”
“I’m deeply concerned,” I reply cheerfully, stabbing my fork into a very delicate piece of asparagus.
Olivia sips her wine faster.
Camden doesn’t miss a beat. “So, how long have you two been together?”
I meet his gaze evenly. “Five years.”
His brows lift, amused. “Really?”
“Off and on,” I add.
“Mostly on,” Rowan says smoothly, not missing a beat.
I nearly drop my fork. And I don’t think I’m the only one who notices.
“Well,” Camden drawls, swirling his wine, “I always said you were the dark horse, King. Hiding this one away all these years. Strategic, really.”
“She’s not hidden,” Rowan says, his tone so calm. “Just protected.”
Camden’s smile doesn’t falter, but the shift in his posture gives him away. The kind of man who’s used to having the last word now realizes he won’t get it here.
I sip my wine because someone has to fill the silence, and if it’s not me, it’s going to be Rowan saying something that gets us both escorted out.
“Protected,” Camden repeats, leaning back. “That’s a strong word.”
“An accurate one,” Rowan replies without looking up from his plate.
I stab another piece of fish that doesn’t deserve it. My pulse is ridiculously too fast, and I can’t tell if it’s because Camden’s still smirking or because Rowan said that like it meant something.
“Protection usually implies danger,” Camden says.
“Sometimes it implies value,” Rowan counters, cutting into his food. “Not that you’d recognize either.”
Olivia exhales a small, nervous laugh. Someone at another table coughs.
Camden’s smirk twists. “Careful, King. Someone might think you’re getting soft.”
Rowan looks up then—finally—and the weight of his stare lands squarely on Camden. “That would require caring what you think.”
For one perfect, electric second, no one moves. Then Camden chuckles. “Well,” he says lightly, swirling his wine again, “this dinner just got interesting.”
“Depends who you ask,” I say before I can stop myself.
Rowan’s hand finds my knee under the table, subtle enough to warn me to stay quiet.
I grab my glass again, pretending to study the centerpiece instead of thinking about how warm his palm feels through the fabric.
The waiter clears plates that no one has finished. I keep my eyes on the empty wineglass because it’s easier than looking at Rowan. He’s too composed.
Camden leans back in his chair, eyes cutting toward me. “You’re full of surprises, Tessa. Where did Rowan find you again?”
I open my mouth, but Rowan beats me to it. “She found me.”
I glance at him. He doesn’t even look my way when he says it. Just sits there, sharp and unreadable.
“Smart woman,” Camden says. “I imagine you don’t make it easy to get close.”
“You’d be surprised,” I say flatly.
“I doubt that.”
Rowan’s hand leaves my knee and curls into a fist under the table.
Camden raises his glass toward him. “To you, King. Always knew you’d land on your feet.”
Rowan clinks the edge of his water glass against Camden’s wine. “I always do.”
The sound is soft, but it feels final.
Camden excuses himself a few minutes later, and I finally breathe again.
Rowan doesn’t look at me. Not right away. He just keeps that same measured calm until the moment he’s sure Camden’s gone. Then, quietly: “Don’t engage with him again.”
I arch a brow. “Oh, sorry. Was I supposed to let him insult me while you debated silverware etiquette?”
His gaze cuts to mine. “I said don’t engage, not don’t exist.”
“Well, thank goodness,” I whisper, leaning closer. “Because pretending to be your girlfriend already requires too much oxygen.”
“Then breathe less.”
I glare. He smirks.
And just like that, the air between us feels charged again.
He turns his focus back to the table, but his fingers brush mine once. A silent warning—or maybe an apology. I can’t tell anymore.
Either way, I’m too aware of it. Of him. Of everything we’re pretending to be and everything we still are underneath it.
And for the rest of dinner, I can’t decide what’s worse: how convincing he is… or how much I want it to be real.