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I can feel the eyes of his brother and the woman as they rake over me. I’m guessing neither expected me, or maybe they did because his brother nearly growls.
“Keeping it classy like always, I see.”
As if this little display of PDA is noteworthy to anyone in this room. It’s not. He’s just being rude, and if I were a lesser woman, then the intended dig would probably hit its mark, but I’m not. In society and wealth, I completely outrank him, and it’s assholes like this that I’ve had to deal with my entire life.
Taking a tiny step from his side, Briggs’s large hand falls to my lower back while mine wraps around his waist.
From over my head, Briggs says, “You would know, wouldn’t you? Till death do you part.”
I glance at the two of them after his comment and then ignore them, as if they are simply nobodies, and turn back to Briggs. “Sorry I took so long. I ran into Donovan’s wife, Kristie, and we got busy catching up.”
Briggs doesn’t actually know if I did or did not run into her, but a small smile forms on his lips as he stares down at me adoringly, and a small surprised noise comes from Adele. Kristie does not give her time freely to just anyone, and my guess is that Adele here has tried to stick her foot in the door to open that relationship and failed.
At this moment, my heart whispers, “What would it feel like to actually have this man looking at me fondly?”
“Donovan Daniels?” his brother blurts.
Tearing my eyes away from Briggs, I turn to face his brother, my composure and air demanding that my pure Upper East Side pedigree be recognized, and it is, given the way his brother’s nostrils flare.
“Why, yes. Lovely couple.”
I’m certain they want to know more, but this is a power move that I know how to play very well. Never overshare. Give them just enough to feel left out and want to know more. People are greedy for gossip and information, and it’s in moments like this when they think they have the upper hand over us, over me, that their confidence wavers, and while I’m smiling at both of them, they feel as if I’m looking down my nose at them.
And I am.
Briggs’s brother pulls his shoulders back a little as he tries to stand taller. Too bad we’re eye to eye with me in these heels, and I watch as Adele’s lips purse together, and her gaze takes inventory. Large diamond stud earrings and a single tennis bracelet, this shows wealth but not flamboyance. The simple square cut neckline of my Oscar de la Renta dress, which I had shipped in just for this event, that shows off the lean lines of my collarbone, the length of my neck, and wraps my frame perfectly, ending just at my knees. To my Valentino heels, recognizable by the one gold stud present on the strap of each ankle.
“I’m sorry, who are you?” his brother asks.
“Goldie, this is my brother, Jaxon Warren, and his soon-to-be wife Adele. Jaxon, my girlfriend, Cora Rhodes,” Briggs says as he waves his free hand back and forth between us, the other still clamping down and holding me to him.
Girlfriend.
We said I’d be his date, so this is a new development. One that I don’t mind, and I’ll have no problems playing.
While Rhodes is a common name, it’s also a name that, when mentioned in elite social circles, causes people to pause and wonder if I’m one of those Rhodes.
Which I am.
“I didn’t realize you were dating anyone.” He eyes me warily. Meanwhile, out of my peripheral vision, I watch as Adele stares at Briggs.
“And why would you? It’s not like you care. I’m only here to be seen, right? Keep up those pretenses of a unified family.”
His brother shifts uncomfortably, not liking that Briggs is publicly speaking about their fake image. Jaxon’s gaze whips back to me, and he says, “I’m sorry, have we met?”
I look him over head to toe, slip on a smile that’s more condescending than pleasant, and tell him, “No, but congratulations to you both. Briggs tells me you’re perfect for each other.”
Sliding his hand to clasp mine, I intertwine our fingers, and he squeezes in approval. Then his thumb slowly begins to brush back and forth. Goose bumps race up my arm.
“Thank you,” Adele says, stepping closer to Jaxon and ignoring the slight. She places her left hand on Jaxon’s chest, flashing her giant ring. I don’t even glance at it. I’m not playing her game. She’s playing mine. A game that I find I don’t like. I’m not myself anymore in these types of situations, and I have no problems admitting it.
Doesn’t mean I can’t or won’t play the part, just that I’d prefer not to.
“So when’s the big day?” I prompt, trying to keep up the pretense that we are actually happy for them.
“Christmas Eve,” she states excitedly as if I should think that a wintery Christmas wedding is ideal.
I pause to allow the insecurity to slip in.
