Her spot was just a traffic light away, so I swung by and picked her up.
At the gala, the Bryant Group heir cornered us about business. I hated talking at these things, but Olivia handled it.
"Mr. Winston and Miss Carter make quite the pair," Bryant said, swirling his glass, eyes bouncing between us.
I forced a smile. I'd heard that crap too many times—never bothered responding.
I didn't get it. Natalie was my wife now, legally. So why did everyone still joke about me and Olivia? Hell, Olivia and I had never even had a real date.
I shifted away from her, putting half a step between us.
"Excuse me," I said, setting down my glass, pretending I had to greet someone, and walked off.
At the crowd's edge, I pulled out my phone. No new messages. Natalie hadn't replied again.
I stared at the blank chat, thumb rubbing the screen's edge. This out-of-control feeling pissed me off like nothing else. What the hell was up with her? Why ignore me?
Whispers hit my ears then, and I caught Natalie's name.
I looked toward the entrance.
There she stood, champagne in hand. The champagne-colored gown hugged her body, one-shoulder style exposing her collarbone, and above that, her tempting neckline.
My eyes lingered for two seconds, then I spotted the problem.
The dress I'd sent her was different—one I'd picked myself from last month's Paris Fashion Week, nude pink, sharp cut. Not this thing that looked like a reject.
My brows furrowed, jaw tightening.
Tomorrow, whoever mixed up that dress was getting fired.
I started toward her.
Then I saw Olivia heading her way.
Natalie didn't like Olivia much. I knew their vibes clashed, but I'd never asked why. Women's drama—I didn't care, didn't need to get involved. But tonight, with everyone around, maybe they'd talk, get used to each other. Make future run-ins less awkward.
I paused, thinking that.
I hung back at the edge, twenty feet away, watching them face off.
Olivia smiled—that standard socialite grin. Natalie had her back to me, so I couldn't see her face, just her shoulders, rigid as stone.
People nearby stopped talking, eyes drifting over.
Some smirked, hands covering mouths.
Then Natalie moved.
She flung her champagne right in Olivia's face.
The whole hall went silent, like someone hit mute.
Olivia froze, hair dripping, her embroidered gown soaked in a messy stain.
Everyone's faces locked up—glasses mid-air, smiles stuck.
My brain buzzed.
