I nod, just once. He straightens, smooths his expression back into marble, and turns to greet the next partner approaching us with a sharp smile.
I do what I’ve always done best.
I pretend I’m fine.
Because Rowan King is already handling everything I’m afraid of.
And somehow, that scares me most of all.
“Rowan,” the man says warmly. “Good to see you.”
“You, too, Alan.”
“And this must be...?”
“Tessa,” I say, extending my hand before he can call me “the girl.”
His eyes crinkle. “Ah, yes. We’ve heard.”
Perfect. I love that for me.
I smile sweetly. “Don’t believe everything you hear. Just the accurate parts.”
He laughs.
Someone snaps a photo.
I flinch instinctively, but Rowan’s hand is already there. Subtle pressure on the small of my back.
We keep moving, gliding through clusters of associates and partners and people. The room is all cream drapery and chandelier lighting designed to flatter exactly no one, but Rowanwalks through it like he doesn’t give two shits. People move aside for him and study me.
Every time someone introduces themselves, I smile. I ask polite questions. I sip champagne and pretend I’m not cataloging which fork is for what and how many times Rowan’s jaw flexes every time someone calls me charming or surprising.
(Answer: too many. The man could chew through marble right now.)
Eventually, we’re escorted to our table. Not at the center, but close enough to suggest favor without arrogance. Placement is politics here. Our name cards sit beside embossed menus and napkins folded with surgical precision.
I take my seat beside a woman named Olivia—perfect blowout, an Hermès bracelet, and an upper lip that looks suspiciously plump. She leans in, squinting just slightly.
“You look incredible. Honestly, what have you had done? Skin like that isn’t natural after twenty-three.”
I blink. Smile sweetly. And lie through my teeth.
“Oh, just the usual—snake blood facials, cryotherapy, and a minor deal with the devil.”
Across the table, Rowan chokes on his water. Chokes. The great and powerful Rowan King, momentarily undone by one sentence and my complete disregard for legal decorum.
I nudge his shin with mine under the table. He glares.
Olivia claps her hands. “I knew I liked you.”
A waiter sweeps in and announces the first course. The plates arrive—tiny, elegant, pretentious. I’m staring at a vertical smear of something pink, an edible flower, and a portion of fish that looks confused.
It smells like butter and expensive pepper.
“You’re doing well,” Rowan murmurs as he cuts into his dinner with methodical grace, watching every interaction I have from across six inches of linen.
I glance at him. “You sound surprised.”
