I hold his gaze. “You memorized the brochure. Did you practice that in the mirror, or did she cue you on the way over?”
Nolan’s laugh is thinner now. “We’re just here to support each other.”
“You’ll need that support,” I say, flatly. “Especially when the memo comes out.”
He blinks. He doesn’t know if I mean the Hale list or the ethics board whisper I planted three weeks ago about his ‘recycled’ appellate brief. I let silence do the speaking.
His jaw flexes. Then he steps back, eyes cutting away first. “We’ll see you at the retreat.”
“You will.”
And when you do, I’ll have what Hale wants: a girlfriend. A narrative. Stability in heels.
I watch him walk away, that calculated stride meant to look casual. Camden’s been quiet through the entire exchange, but I catch his smirk in my peripheral vision.
“Subtle as a brick through a window,” he murmurs into his whiskey.
“He started it.”
“Still. You could’ve let him hang himself with that rehearsed speech.” Camden swirls his drink. “Instead, you went nuclear. What’s got you so wound up?”
I don’t answer immediately. Because the truth is complicated, and Camden doesn’t know about the arrangement I’ve concocted. All he knows is that I’ve been more on edge than usual.
“Parrish irritates me,” I say finally.
“Parrish has always irritated you. That felt personal.”
Across the room, I spot Hale near the silent auction tables. She’s surrounded by the usual suspects: partners, their spouses, the kind of people who summer in the Hamptons and winter in Aspen. Her attention shifts through the crowd with predatory efficiency, cataloging, evaluating, deciding who’s worth her time.
When her gaze lands on me, it lingers just long enough to send a message:I’m watching.
Then she looks past me, scanning for what isn’t there. The plus-one that would complete my image. The proof that I’m more than just brilliant legal strategy and expensive suits.
“You planning to work the room tonight?” Camden asks, following my stare. “Or are you going to brood at the bar until they announce dinner?”
“I’m strategizing.”
“You’re overthinking.” He finishes his whiskey and sets the glass down with finality. “Whatever’s eating at you, fix it before it becomes everyone else’s problem.”
If only it were that simple.
But nothing about this is simple, not with Tessa. In three days, she’ll be standing next to me in the Hamptons, and I’ll have to find out whether desperation can convincingly masquerade as devotion long enough to fool men who make a living dissecting weakness. I know how it will look on paper—Rowan King, accompanied, stable, partnered—and I know how it will feel in practice, with Tessa Whitmore’s pulse betraying her under silk sleeves while she pretends we aren’t both counting the seconds until she can run.
The problem isn’t whether she can follow directions; she’s smarter than anyone else in this room, and when cornered, she’s sharp enough to draw blood. The problem is whether I can keep myself from watching too closely, from seeing the flicker in her eyes when she realizes just how much I’ve maneuvered her into place.
Hale doesn’t hire attorneys without polish, and polish requires narrative—commitment, balance, a life that looks manageable under pressure. Parrish packaged his narrative with a ring. Camden rehearsed his into something he can get away with. Mine has teeth. Mine requiresher.
And when Hale looks at me—because she will—I need her to see more than control and calculation. I need her to see the one thing I don’t actually have.
Stability.
No one makes me look more real than Tessa Whitmore.
Because with her, I was real. Once. Before I learned that real meant vulnerable and vulnerable meant disposable.
And Hale doesn’t want perfect.
She wants convincing.
