Page 50 of The Temporary Bride

“It’s Thorne, now,” I correct. A strange expression crosses Chloe’s face, one that I can’t read.

“I don’t know if we’ve met,” Chloe says. “Care to introduce me, Tristan?”

I gesture to each of the executives, telling her their names. Once the ice is broken, she takes it from there, asking the right questions, keeping each person engaged, moving things along with an ease that comes from years of working her way through rooms exactly like this one.

I hang back and watch her work, and that’s when I notice something odd. Every time someone new speaks to her, she shifts just slightly, angling her right side toward whoever is talking. It’s subtle enough that you’d miss it entirely if you weren’t watching closely, reading it as nothing more than natural movement in a conversation. But I’ve seen it before. At the engagement party. At the altar today when she asked the priest to repeat himself. At the gala where my father received that award, when she had her back to the bar and her right side toward the room.

I don’t say anything about it, just file the observation away for now. And I make sure to stay close and step in when it’s useful, making introductions where she needs them and repeating anything that I’m not quite sure she heard.

The executives move on after a bit as new people take their place, and Chloe keeps going through all of it. But I can see her energy starting to flag after another thirty minutes. It’s clear in the slight tightening around her eyes and the way her smile takes a fraction of a second longer to arrive than it did at the start of the night. She’s been running at full capacity since before the ceremony, and it’s showing in the small ways that nobody else here is positioned to notice.

When there’s a gap between one group leaving and the next arriving, I catch Chloe’s hand as I step a little closer to her.

“We can leave now if you want,” I tell her. “We’ve put in enough time to appease both of our families. The party is winding down anyway, and nobody’s going to miss us for the rest of the night.”

She looks up at me, and for just a moment, everything she’s been holding up all day shows on her face. The exhaustion of putting on a show all day, and something else underneath it all that isn’t quite the wariness she usually has when she looks at me. Then she nods.

“Okay,” she says, a note of gratitude in her voice. “Let’s go.”

Chapter 17

Chloe

A handful of guests follow us out to the car, which I could have done without. I’ve been smiling and nodding and performing for the better part of eight hours, and what I want more than anything right now is to stop. To get in a car and close the door and not have to be a radiant new bride for five minutes.

Not that there isn’t something terrifying about that, as well. I’m not going home to my familiar condo. I’m going to Tristan’s house.

Our house.

Fuck. That’s going to take some getting used to.

I offer a polite farewell to the last few well-wishers, and Tristan keeps his hand at the small of my back the entire time. I’ve stopped being able to tell if it’s for my benefit or the guests’, and at this point I’m not sure it matters.

Finally, we manage to escape to the waiting car. The driver opens the rear door, and Tristan helps me in, managing the train of the dress with more competence than I expected from someone who’s presumably never had to deal with a hundred thousand dollar wedding gown before. He slides in beside me, and as the door closes, the noise of the evening cuts off all at once. The partition between us and the driver goes up, and I lean back against the seat and let out a breath.

As we start to drive back to Tristan’s place, his voice breaks the somewhat comfortable silence between us.

“I don’t know if I got a chance to tell you,” he says softly, his eyes meeting mine in the dimly lit interior of the car, “but you looked beautiful tonight.”

I feel a flutter of nerves in the pit of my stomach at his compliment, and I lick my lips nervously.

“Thank you,” I murmur, forcing a small smile. “You looked good too.”

The words feel awkward on my tongue, and I can’t help but wonder if he sees through the facade of composure I’m desperately trying to maintain. The truth is, I’m exhausted—physically and emotionally drained by the events of the day.

“The whole wedding was beautiful,” I add, my voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty. “I think people… believed it, you know?”

Tristan’s expression shifts, a flicker of something crossing his features before his gaze hardens ever so slightly. “There’s nothing to ‘believe.’ This wedding was as real as any other.”

I give him a skeptical look, a small scoff escaping my lips because I’m too tired right now to be diplomatic. Before I can say anything, he reaches out and pulls me onto his lap. The movement is so smooth and unexpected that I let out a small sound of surprise, my heart stuttering as he lifts me effortlessly and settles me into place.

“You’ll… you’ll ruin my dress,” I mutter halfheartedly, although I don’t really care about that and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t either.

His arms close around me, holding me against his chest, the warmth of his body seeping through all those layers of fabric.

“What part of that wedding felt fake to you, Chloe?” he asks quietly.

There’s nowhere to look but at him as his question hangs between us.