Page 4 of The Temporary Bride

“What kind of distribution?”

“Streaming.” The bartender slides a whiskey in front of him, and he takes a slow sip. “Network TV is dying. Streaming is the only growth segment left, and we’re moving into new markets next year.”

I frown, not sure whether to believe him. “Which markets?”

“Asia, mostly. The regulatory side is further along than anyone outside the room knows.”

I narrow my eyes. We’ve been in direct competition since Wharton, even more so now that we’re high-ranking in our families’ respective rival companies. When he’s on the verge of success, it means I’m facing a challenge.

“And the content?” I raise an eyebrow, pretending to be unconcerned. “Localizing for that many regions isn’t something you can stand up overnight, even with Thorne’s resources.”

“Oh, we have the resources,” he replies, his eyes flashing. His voice drops, and he angles his body closer to mine. “Trust me. This is airtight.”

I look away from him and clear my throat, both pissed at him and, against my will, drawn to him. He knows exactly what he’s doing, I’m certain of it. I wonder how often he uses that frustrating charm to get what he wants.

A voice beside me breaks the tension, and I turn gratefully to its source. It’s a man I recognize, Dean Rafferty Junior, a son of my father’s friend and longtime colleague. He doesn’t pull at me like Tristan does, but he gives me the perfect opportunity to turn away.

“Miss Dawson?” he asks hesitantly. “Would you like to dance?”

Startled, I glance at the dance floor. I hadn’t even noticed the shuffling of the dancers’ feet, or the band striking up its tune. I compose myself quickly, then nod, giving him a broad smile.

“Of course, Dean. It would be my pleasure.”

I let him take my hand, and he guides me away from the bar. I don’t look back at Tristan, but his irritation prickles in the air behind me.

Good. Now he’s the one who’s pissed off. Let him chew on that for a while.

Dean leads me to the dance floor, and we begin a slow waltz alongside the other pairs. He moves a little awkwardly, and won’t meet my gaze as we circle past the band.

“I really admire your father,” Dean says. “He’s a great man.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. This wasn’t entirely unexpected. It’s something I’ve experienced plenty of times before.

MediaSphere is something of a family business: my father and his two daughters, working together. Both my sister and I have had our share of would-be admirers whose eyes were actually on our dad.

“You’re lucky you have his footsteps to follow,” Dean adds, and this time, I can’t help rolling my eyes. He doesn’t seem to notice. He just keeps on chatting, full of praise for Vincent Dawson. He never does meet my gaze.

By the end of the dance, the annoyance Tristan stirred up has reached a full boil. Tersely, I thank Dean for his company, then turn back to the bar to get myself a glass of water and cool my head.

My entire life, I’ve felt like I was on a path that was decided for me before I even existed. I can’t deviate from this track.

I can’t fight my way past the legions of my father’s admirers to find one person, anyone, who will see me for who I am.

As I set the glass of water down on the bar, I can’t help scanning the crowd for Tristan Thorne. He’s standing near his family’s table on the other side of the room, and when my eyes land on him, I’m startled to realize that his are already on me.

We lock eyes across the large space, both of us going still for a second or two. Then I pull my attention away and go to find my family.

Chapter 3

Tristan

Two weeks after my father’s award presentation, I sit in my corner office at Thorne Enterprises, scowling at the spreadsheet on the screen in front of me.

Our numbers have been slipping. There’s no way around it. We aren’t meeting the same profits we have in the past.

It’s undeniable. Just like Chloe Dawson hinted, we’re on the verge of stagnation.

I tap the side of my laptop, agitated, and turn my gaze to the skyline outside of my floor-to-ceiling windows.