Page 50 of His Vow

I pulled away. My forehead against his. Both of us breathing hard.

"Tonight," I said. A promise.

He held my gaze. His thumb traced the bone of my hip. "Tonight."

I left to get ready for the gala. My apartment was a disaster of fabric and options — three dresses draped across the bed, two pairs of shoes on the floor, earrings scattered across the bathroom counter. Margaux arrived at 4:00 p.m. with a garment bag, a curling iron, and the particular expression of a woman who had cleared her evening to perform a miracle.

"Sit," she said, pointing at the bathroom stool. "Don't move."

My phone buzzed while she worked on my hair. Daddy.

"Tonight is going to be special, sweetheart." His voice was warm, bright, the voice he used when he was proud of something and wanted me to feel included in his pride. "I have something planned."

"For me?"

"Who else?" I could hear his smile through the phone. "Wear something beautiful."

I hung up and caught Margaux's eyes in the mirror. "Daddy has a surprise."

Her eyebrow lifted. The curling iron paused mid-twist. "What kind of surprise?"

"He didn't say. But he sounded excited."

The eyebrow stayed up. She said nothing. She went back to my hair.

The dress was gold. Not the bright gold of the birthday dinner — darker, deeper, the color of honey held up to candlelight. It skimmed my body from shoulder to floor, the neckline cutting straight across my collarbones, my back bare to the waist. Margaux zipped me in, stepped back, and pressed her lips together.

"Well?" I turned.

"If he doesn't lose his mind when he sees you, I'll kill him myself."

Nolan was waiting outside in the car. I climbed in and his eyes found me in the dark. The gold fabric, the bare shoulders, the curls Margaux had pinned up with a few left loose at my temples. His hand found my knee. His thumb pressed into the bare skin above the hem.

"The navy looks wonderful on you," I said, touching his lapel. The suit fit him — the severity softened, the man underneath more visible. He'd worn it because I asked. The private victory of it settled in my chest like a flame.

The ballroom was already full when we walked in. Crystal chandeliers threw fractured light across a room designed to make people feel small and important at the same time. A string quartet played something classical beneath the hum of three hundred voices. White tablecloths. Silver flatware. Arrangements of white roses and eucalyptus on every surface, the scent so thick it pressed against the back of my throat.

The room turned when we entered. Heads swiveled. Conversations dipped.

I felt the attention, and I tightened my grip on Nolan's arm and walked through it.

Hugh commanded the center of the room in a charcoal suit, silver hair swept back, a glass of champagne held at chest height like a scepter. Gerald Ashworth flanked him, shaking hands with a steady rotation of donors and board members. Rhys was at the bar. Already. His tie was loose, his glass dark, his laugh carrying across the room with a volume that didn't match the conversation he was in. A woman beside him said something, and he threw his head back, the laughter rolling out too loud, too fast.

Camille materialized in cream silk, air-kissing my cheek. Bianca followed in emerald. Dominique, Sloane, Petra — they arrived in formation, their compliments landing like confetti, pretty and weightless. "The dress is stunning, Sol." "You two look incredible together." "Your father must be so proud."

Declan and Thea stood near the dance floor. Thea's ring caught the chandelier light every time she moved her hand, and she moved it often — touching Declan's arm, adjusting his lapel, the unconscious gestures of a woman still getting used to the new weight on her finger. Declan's hand rested on the small of her back. They were solid. Easy.

Julian was holding court with a circle of donors, his sleeves somehow already rolled despite the black-tie dress code. A champagne flute in one hand, the other gesturing broadly as he delivered a punchline that made three grown men laugh like schoolboys.

Margaux was somewhere in the room. I could feel her watching even when I couldn't see her. The one person who was never performing.

The evening built.

Dinner was elaborate — courses I stopped counting, wine I stopped tracking. Nolan's hand found my knee under the table. My fingers laced through his. Hugh gave a toast to the room — to Lattimore Holdings, to legacy, to the people who made it possible — and the three hundred guests raised their glasses in unison, the crystal catching the light like a constellation.

After dinner, the quartet slowed to something softer. Nolan took my hand and led me to the floor. His arm circled my waist. His other hand held mine against his chest.

We moved together — close, slow, his mouth near my ear.