The Wife He Didn't Protect (Second Chance Billionaires #4)

Prologue—Lorna

THE SHOES ARE THE PROBLEM tonight. I’ve been on my feet for six hours in four-inch Louboutins because the client’s creative director wanted editorial height for the cocktail portion.

My left heel has developed a blister beneath the strap, while the ache through my right arch gets worse every time I cross the ballroom.

The shoes photographed beautifully at six. At nearly ten, I’d trade them for the sneakers in my garment bag without a second thought.

I’ve escaped to the terrace one floor above the ballroom with sparkling water, lime, and a mint sprig nobody asked me about before dropping it into the glass.

October air cools my bare arms as I rest against the stone railing and flex my toes inside shoes that don’t allow much movement.

Through the glass doors, four hundred guests sit beneath chandeliers while servers clear the remains of an eight-thousand-dollar-a-plate dinner.

Hale & Whitfield hired me as the face of the gala, which means I’ve spent the evening doing far more than posing beside the sponsor wall. I’ve greeted donors, talked to spouses, introduced executives, and smiled through three separate conversations about whether I actually eat dessert.

The bank wanted a model capable of working a room without making every interaction about being a model. I’m good at it. Ten years in this business has taught me how to make strangers comfortable.

Right now, I want five minutes without a stranger.

The terrace door opens behind me. I keep looking toward the city because somebody from the event team will find me soon enough.

“They ran out of the good champagne an hour ago.”

The male voice comes from several feet away instead of directly behind me.

I turn to find a tall man in a navy suit standing near the door with two champagne flutes.

Dark hair, white shirt, and no bow tie. The tailoring says custom without advertising the price, while the missing tie puts him just outside the dress code.

He lifts one of the glasses. “Everything left tastes like somebody dropped a cough lozenge into club soda.”

“I’m fine with water.” I raise my glass enough to demonstrate.

He looks at it, then at the two drinks he’s carrying. His mouth curves. “That would’ve been the smarter decision. I panicked at the bar.”

“The bartender pressured you?”

He flashes a crooked grin. “She looked offended when I tried to leave empty-handed.”

I glance through the doors toward the bars set along the ballroom wall. “You went to the left station. The bartender on the right doesn’t care what anyone drinks as long as they move out of her way.”

His laugh is immediate enough to surprise me. He crosses to the railing, sets down one of the flutes, and keeps enough distance that I don’t have to adjust mine. “You’ve studied the staff?”

I lift a shoulder. “I’ve been here since two. I’ve studied the carpet pattern.”

He rests one forearm against the railing and looks across the city instead of turning his body toward me.

Most men at events like this square themselves to me within thirty seconds.

They work for prolonged eye contact, shift closer when I shift away, and treat conversation like a photograph they’re trying to arrange.

This one drinks bad champagne and gives me room.

“I’m Chris.”

“Lorna.”

“I know.” He takes another sip, immediately regrets it, and lowers the glass. “Lorna Raney. You did the Dior campaign in March. The one in the greenhouse.”

I subtly correct that. “Botanical garden.”

Chris turns his head toward me.

“It was very much still operating,” I add. “They dressed one section to look abandoned.”

“I thought it looked cold.”

“It was freezing.” I shift my right foot, searching for a position that doesn’t aggravate my arch. “I spent nine hours in a silk slip dress while the photographer misted the plants to get condensation on the glass. My makeup artist had to keep fixing my nose because it wouldn’t stop running.”

Chris studies the champagne for a moment. “Fashion is more glamorous from the other side of the camera.”

“That’s intentional.”

He laughs again, quieter this time, then leaves his drink on the railing. “How long have you been modeling?”

“Ten years.”

“Is that a long run?”

The question is sincere enough that I answer instead of giving him the polished version. “For editorial, yes. I started at eighteen. I’m twenty-seven now, which isn’t remotely old unless you’re standing backstage at fashion week beside women who can’t legally rent cars.”

He chuckles. “Are you still doing runway?”

I hesitate before being honest. “Less every year. I’m moving toward campaigns and longer partnerships.”

Chris shifts enough to face me more directly. “Are you moving toward those, or away from modeling?”

I look at him over the rim of my glass before taking a drink. Most people don’t catch that distinction. Most don’t bother trying. “A little of both.”

“What would you do if you stopped?”

“I don’t know yet.”

He accepts that without rushing to fill the pause. Music filters through the closed terrace doors, softened by glass, while a server inside carries a tray of empty dessert plates toward the service corridor.

Chris hooks one thumb into his trouser pocket. “What part of the work do you actually like?”

My lips curve. “Besides getting paid?”

“That’s a respectable favorite.”

I laugh, then look back over the city. The question deserves more than the answer I usually give interviewers.

“I like building the image before the camera comes out. Concepts, locations, styling, and what the campaign is trying to say. The Dior shoot you mentioned started with an idea I brought to the creative director.”

His eyes widen. “The botanical garden?”

“That was mine. I’d been following a photographer who worked with conservatories, and I put together a mood board. Location references, wardrobe ideas, and possible photographers. The creative team changed plenty of it, but the original pitch was mine.”

Chris doesn’t react with surprise, which I appreciate more than I expected. “Do you do that often?”

I take another sip. “Whenever they’ll let me.”

“Would you rather do more?”

The answer arrives too quickly to pretend otherwise. “Yes.”

He waits.

I set my glass beside his abandoned champagne.

“I’ve been thinking about building my own platform.

Content, maybe a newsletter. Wellness and design, with some of the lifestyle editorial I’ve spent years working around.

I know how those brands talk to women because I’ve been paid to help them do it. ”

“Would yours be different?”

“I hope so. Most brands spend a lot of money telling women what they should want. I’d rather build something where they can tell me what they’re already looking for.” I smile wistfully.

Chris doesn’t turn the conversation into a pitch meeting. He doesn’t tell me whom he knows, what firm I should hire, or how much capital I need. I’ve met wealthy men who hear a woman describe an idea and immediately start explaining how they’d execute it better.

Chris asks, “How far have you gotten?”

“I have notes.”

“Notes can turn into a company.”

I nod. “They can also stay in a folder on my phone for three years.”

“How long have yours been there?”

“Two,” I say sheepishly.

His mouth twitches. “Then you’ve got a year.”

I laugh despite myself. “That’s a terrible business plan.”

“I didn’t say it was a plan.”

The terrace door opens before I can answer. A PR coordinator leans outside with a headset looped around her neck. “Lorna, donor acknowledgment is in ten. You’re introducing the foundation chair.”

“I’ll be there.” She disappears inside again, already touching one finger to her earpiece.

I pick up my water and straighten away from the railing. My feet object immediately. Chris glances down, catching the brief adjustment before I can stop myself.

“Bad shoes?”

“Beautiful shoes.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I look at him, then laugh. “They’re awful.”

He steps away from the railing so I have a clear path to the door. “I won’t keep you from your foundation chair.”

I incline my head gracefully. “It was nice meeting you, Chris...”

“Chris Aldren.” He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a business card, holding it toward me without stepping closer. “I’d like to hear about the platform if you build it.”

I take the card printed on heavy cream stock. His name sits above Aldren Capital Partners in plain navy lettering. No embossed crest or list of titles.

I smile again. “You give business cards to every woman hiding from a gala?”

He grins, making him look younger and carefree. “Only the ones with two-year-old business plans.”

“They’re notes.”

“Right. Extremely organized notes.” He winks.

I slide the card into the small pocket my stylist had sewn into the lining of my dress after I complained that evening gowns were apparently designed for women without phones, keys, or identification. “You haven’t even seen them.”

“You’re right.” Chris retrieves his champagne, considers another sip, and changes his mind. “You could be terrible at this.”

“Much better.”

He lifts the glass in my direction. “I thought so.”

The ballroom waits through the glass doors, bright with chandeliers and table candles. My break has already run longer than I intended, but I don’t resent the interruption to it.

Chris gestures toward the door with his glass. “Your foundation chair probably needs you.”

I sigh heavily. “She definitely does. I’ve seen her speech.”

He winces. “That bad?”

“Nine minutes before edits.”

He winces more dramatically this time. “How many now?”

“Four.”

“You’re ruthless.” He seems to approve.

“I’m employable.”

He laughs as I open the terrace door. Warm air reaches me immediately, carrying perfume, coffee, and the remains of dinner. Conversation fills the room beneath the string quartet playing near the stage. Several heads turn as I come inside, which is ordinary enough that I barely register it anymore.

I cross the ballroom toward the podium, careful with the blister beneath my left heel. The foundation chair waits beside the stairs with note cards in one hand. A producer crouches near the stage, checking the microphone cable, while the PR coordinator points at me with visible relief.

Chris Aldren’s card rests against my hip inside the dress pocket.

I don’t know whether I’ll call him. I have contracts through spring, three cities on next month’s schedule, and a folder full of ideas I’ve never shown anyone. None of that changed during fifteen minutes on a hotel terrace.

At the foot of the stage, I glance back.

Chris is just inside the ballroom now. He’s abandoned the champagne somewhere and stands near the terrace doors while another donor talks to him. When he catches me looking, he lifts his glass of water.

My pulse accelerates, and I admit I want to see him again.