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He’d better not fuck this up.

27

GRACE

The line of limos outside the Westmere stretches all the way around the block. We’ve been crawling forward for nearly ten minutes in total silence. I’m wearing the emerald dress and Charles hasn’t said a single word about it. Not when he picked me up. Not during the entire drive, when he was glued to his phone playing some mindless game. Not even when I crossed my legs and the silk slid over my thighs.

He hasn’t looked at me once.

What the hell is wrong with him?

Drew would have made some stupid, cocky comment the second I got in the car. He would have given me that slow, hungry look that always made my stomach flip.

Not that I’m thinking about Drew.

Obviously.

Finally, our limo glides to a stop at the door. Charles climbs out first, then turns and offers me his hand like he’s doing me a grand favor. I take it anyway, the cool night air brushing over my shoulders as I step onto the carpet.

A young bellhop hurries forward, practically vibrating with nervous energy.

“Good evening, Mr. Lackey,” he says brightly. “May I say, your daughter looks absolutely stunning tonight.”

The silence that follows is absolutely brutal.

Charles freezes, his fingers tightening painfully around mine. His face turns a deep, furious red.

“Excuse me?” he snaps. “She’s not my daughter. She’s my date.”

The poor bellhop—Jamie, according to his name tag—looks mortified. “Oh…I’m so sorry, sir. I just assumed⁠—”

“You assumed wrong,” Charles hisses. He yanks me forward a little too roughly, his neck now blotchy.

Heads have already turned. A little cluster of guests near the entrance is openly staring.

It doesn’t bother me. Charles is old enough to be my father. He deserves to feel every second of that embarrassment.

But the thing is…I’m almost certain I’ve seen that bellhop before. He’s greeted me as Miss Whitmore more than once.

Weird.

We step inside, and the Westmere is as breathtaking as always. Crystal chandeliers sparkling overhead, fresh white roses spilling from tall vases, and the constant hum of gossip filling the air. I scan the room quickly, but I don’t see my father yet. He’d said he was getting ready at the office because he was working late. Again.

Heads turn as we move further in. Some smiles are cautious, others overly bright. A few women who used to whisper behind my back now offer polite little nods, their eyes flicking over my dress with sudden interest.

That’s about right.

I wasn’t acceptable yesterday. But now that I’m on Charles’s arm (and potentially marrying into his billions) suddenly I’m acceptable again.

Assholes, I can almost hear Drew saying—not that I’m thinking about him.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. A month ago, I would have felt relieved to see these familiar faces soften toward me. Now it just feels…wrong. Like I can’t bring myself to care what they think anymore. I don’t want their approval, and I certainly don’t need it.

“Come along,” Charles says tightly, pressing his hand into the small of my back as he steers me through the crowd.

We stop beside a cluster of silver-haired men in tuxedos. One of them claps Charles on the shoulder and asks about Precision DNA. Charles immediately drops my hand and turns his back to me, launching into his answer like I’m not even there.

“We’re finalizing the investment next week,” Charles says smoothly. “Whitmore’s commitment should push us well over the line.”