“I want the first swing,” I say immediately.
Rowan’s hand tightens at my waist. “God help whoever stands in front of you.”
“Maybe you should,” I say lightly. “Seems safer.”
“Doubt it.” His tone is dry, the corner of his mouth barely moving.
The partners laugh again, and the conversation shifts toward firm business—London expansion, mergers, things I only half hear. I nod at the right times, pretending to listen, but my focus is on the weight of Rowan’s hand and the warmth of his breath when he leans in.
Then someone says it.
“Of course, we run full background checks. You can’t be too careful about reputation.”
My chest tightens. I force my hand to stay steady around the glass, even though my pulse spikes.
Rowan doesn’t move, doesn’t look away from the group. His thumb strokes once against my back, light and deliberate. When I glance up, he’s already watching me.
“Of course,” he says. “Integrity’s everything.”
It sounds effortless.
The partners nod and move on, satisfied. I take a slow breath, trying to unclench my jaw.
Rowan still hasn’t looked away. His tone softens, but only slightly. “Relax. They’re not talking about you.”
I manage a small smile. “You sure?”
“No,” he says quietly, dry as ever. “But if they are, they won’t find anything.”
Chapter Sixteen
Tessa
We get passed around after that. Everyone wants to meet Rowan’s mysterious girlfriend. They ask how we met (college debate, I say, which is true), how long we’ve been together (on and off for years, I say, smiling, which is also true—in the most painful way possible), how we’re managing work-life balance (therapy and threats of arson, which gets the biggest laugh).
Rowan barely blinks through any of it. He answers everything coolly, as if this fake life is more natural than his real one. But I catch the tells—the way his jaw ticks when someone asks if we’re planning to get married, the way his fingers press into my hip when I correct his answer about his favorite meal with something deliberately wrong just to watch him react.
He still hates when I’m right about things he thinks I shouldn’t know.
I sparkle. I’ve been media-trained by Satan himself in a Tom Ford suit.
I’m charming. I’m clever. I laugh just enough, tease him twice, and casually mention that Waffles is a rescue because I’m not above using a one-eyed dog for sympathy points.
But inside? I’m cataloging every detail, every unconscious gesture that proves some part of the boy I used to love is still buried under all that expensive armor.
And that terrifies me more than any ethics committee ever could.
The woman in pearls lifts her hand toward a waiting butler. “You two must be exhausted from traveling. Henry will show you to your suite.”
My stomach tightens, and my pulse stumbles. Suite. One room. I feel the air catch in my throat, but I keep my smile in place.
Rowan’s hand shifts against my back, his fingers spreading as if to remind me to stay still. “That’s very thoughtful,” he says, his voice smooth and steady. “We’re looking forward to settling in.”
I nod once, even though my chest feels tight. My heart beats hard enough to make it difficult to swallow.
Henry gestures for us to follow, and Rowan moves first, his hand firm against my back as we climb the stairs. The air feels heavy, and each step seems to echo louder than the last. My heels sink into the carpet as I move beside him, my hand gripping my clutch harder than I need to.
The hallway stretches long, lined with framed portraits and soft lighting. The smell of polished wood and old money lingers in the air. I can feel every inch of Rowan beside me—how close he walks, how his hand never leaves me. My chest burns from the effort of keeping quiet.
