He smirks. “Please. I came alone on purpose. Easier to flirt with the senior partners’ assistants when you’re not dragging dead weight.”
I take a drink instead of answering, and he mistakes my silence for interest.
“These events aren’t about conversation,” he goes on. “They’re about optics. Who you walk in with. Who you’re seen beside.”
“You sound rehearsed,” I say.
He shrugs. “Maybe I’m just observant. Parrish brought his fiancée. She’s a Harvard Medical School grad. OB-GYN or something.”
“Packaging sells,” I say, eyes still on the door.
And then my brain does that annoying thing. It lashes to Tessa, in a dress she didn’t choose, standing still because I told her to. Her hands would shake just slightly, the way they always did when she was trying not to show fear.
I can see it perfectly—the forced smile she’d wear while hating every second. The way she’d dig her nails into her palms to keep from bolting. How she’d look at me across that ballroom and realize exactly what I’ve made her into.
The image fits all too well. Which is why I hate it.
And why I can’t stop picturing it.
Camden tilts his head. “So... where’s yours?”
“My what?”
“Your partner. Girlfriend. Girl from Pilates. Thought you’d bring someone, especially with the partners sniffing around for ‘stage-ready couples.’”
I take a slow sip. “She’ll be at the retreat.”
“Ah. The mysterious ‘she.’ Convenient timing.”
I glance at him. “So is your sudden interest in my relationship status.”
“I’m just saying, if I were Hale, I’d wonder why the King of Strategy showed up solo to the most performative event of the year.”
I roll my glass between two fingers. Every other candidate came prepackaged for hire. A charming partner on their arm. A curated relationship fit for LinkedIn. And me?
I’m planning to show up with a woman who hates me.
Camden leans in again. “Careful, King. If she’s not real, they’ll smell it.”
Then—
“Rowan,” comes the voice I was waiting for. “Didn’t expect to see you alone.”
I don’t look up right away. Parrish always leads with familiarity. It softens the blow when he tries to gut you. I take another sip, set the glass down, and turn.
Nolan Parrish is smiling. The kind of smile that belongs in firm bios and alumni magazines. He’s curated down to the pores. Midnight-blue tux. Ivy League fiancée with camera-ready foundation and a hand on his arm.
“Parrish,” I say evenly. “Didn’t expect to see you out without a social media post.”
“I heard the senior partners are here,” Parrish says, adjusting his sleeve. “Thought I’d make a strong impression.”
“You brought your relationship status to do it. Bold move.”
His eyes flicker before he recovers. “The firm values stability. Being partnered shows you can commit.” He shrugs. “Handle your shit.”
I know exactly how Tessa will handle walking into that retreat. The panic that will bloom behind her ribs when she realizes there’s no exit strategy. How she’ll look for me in the crowd, not for comfort, but for permission to breathe.
I’ll watch her drown in silk and small talk, but I’ll be the one keeping her head underwater.
