He leans down. At first, I think he’s just adjusting, angling himself into the frame, but then his mouth presses against my cheek. A warm drag of lips against skin that shouldn’t mean anything and somehow means everything.
My entire body locks. Heat sparks beneath my skin. A sharp, molten bloom shoots from my cheek straight down my spine, settling low in my belly.
I’m suddenly aware of every inch of him pressed beside me. The crisp scent of his cologne. The way my entire face feels like it’s on fire.
I keep staring straight ahead, unable to look at him, terrified I’ll show the molten ache curling low between my thighs.
I snap the photo, and he pulls back like nothing happened.
“Good?” he asks.
My brain is soup.
“Um, yeah.”
“Post whichever you want,” he says. “They both look convincing.”
Convincing. Not cute. Not real.
“Ten minutes,” he says again, as if nothing happened, and walks away.
And I’m left with my heartbeat thrashing, my pulse beating between my thighs… and wondering how the hell I’m supposed to survive Dominic Moreal.
The event is way too glossy and expensive. It’s full of athletes, influencers, and executives pretending they don’t rehearse every laugh that leaves their mouths.
Neon lights flash against massive screens looping the campaign, champagne flutes sparkle in every hand, and the whole place feels like a curated, polished circus.
I spent the last thirty minutes with the WAGs while Dom and the team did their rounds of shaking hands and taking photos. Melody and I wandered from display to display, pretending to critique the collection while eavesdropping on half the room.
I scan the crowd, looking for Dominic despite myself. A man of his size is easy to spot, and I do immediately.
He’s standing near one of the massive display screens… with her. The woman from his house.
Something in my chest squeezes. She’s wearing a tight red gown tonight, and she’s touching his arm while she talks. Not much, just that casual, intimate press of fingertips, the kind you only do to a man you’ve known in ways I’d rather not picture.
She laughs lightly at something he says, but Dom isn’t laughing. He’s wearing that polite, tight-lipped smile he uses when he’s being civil. And I hate to admit it, but they make sense together.
Her posture matches his perfectly. So does her beauty. My stomach twists sharply. She’s smiling up at him like he’s the only man in the room. Something stings behind my ribs, hot and acidic.
And looking at them now, I feel small. Ridiculously, painfully small. She’s everything people expect next to a man like Dominic.
Meanwhile, I’m the girl with the sewing machine and a feed full of outfit videos.
They look like they belong on magazine covers.
I feel like I snuck in.
My chest tightens until it aches. Dom says something, and she laughs again. Her hand drifts a little higher on his arm, and Dom steps back, enough to make the space between them noticeable. A small shift of weight, a measured backward step, a quiet but unmistakable message: no.
She just laughs again, adjusting her stance, trying to close the distance he created. Dom doesn’t let her. He keeps that new, careful space between them.
My chest loosens for half a second, and I force myself to breathe.
I believed him when he said he didn’t touch her last week. And I still do.
But I also believe that she’d tear her dress off with her teeth if he crooked a finger.
He shifts slightly, as though sensing eyes on him. And then he sees me. The woman keeps talking, oblivious, while Dom’s eyes stay locked on mine. His expression doesn’t shift dramatically, but his eyes soften and his lips curve into a small smile for me. He tilts his head in a small gesture, a silent invitation for me to join him.
