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“I’m sure.” His gaze drops to the gift in my hand. Right, I’m meant to open it. I undo the ribbon and carefully lift the lid, unwrapping layers of silk paper. At its heart is an envelope and scrawled on the front isMr. and Mrs. St. Clair.
“Who’s it from?” Victor asks.
“I don’t know. Who sends a wrapped envelope?” I open it and pull out a thick card with the same scrawled writing. The letterhead makes my throat close.
“It’s from Acture Capital.”
Victor groans. “Read it.”
“Victor. We were both pleased and surprised to hear the news. Congratulations are in order, it seems. To celebrate, you’re both welcome to dinner on Saturday the twenty-fourth at the Conways’.”
“Who signed it?”
“All three,” I whisper. “Tristan Conway, Anthony Winter, and Carter Kingsley.”
The partners in his venture capitalist firm, and one of them used to be my boss. I’d worked side by side with Tristan, organizing his inbox, his work schedule, his life.
And now I’m invited to dinner at his place.
“Damn,” Victor mutters. “I thought this would be a quiet, private thing. I see now that it’s not.”
“No,” I say. “Doesn’t seem like it.”
He runs a hand over his jawline. The rain in his hair has started to dry, leaving it a tousled, half-curled, dark blond mess. It’s a side of him I’ve never seen at work. Pissed off, sure. Aggravated, often. But not looking at me with calculation, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to display muscular forearms.
“We can go,” he says. “It’ll get them off my back, answer some questions, and we won’t interact with them and their girlfriends again.”
“You want me to come,” I say. “To meet your co-founders?”
He nods. “Yes. People know. We’re going to have to own it, even if it’s not in a big way. You want me to frequent an art gallery, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, that’ll go over better if we’re seen as a couple. You love the art, I’ll buy a ton of it to please you.”
“Pretend to be a couple,” I murmur. “Will Tristan Conway be there? At the dinner?”
His eyes narrow. “Yes. It’ll be at his place.”
I swallow, meeting the unforgiving gaze. For so long, what I’d wanted was to be brave, to dare, just like these men did. To go after my dreams of running my own company. I’ve given up ever earning Victor St. Clair’s respect.
But I didn’t want Tristan Conway to ask me why I’d married his successor and have no answer.
“Will you tell them?” I ask. “About the reason why we married?”
“No. I don’t want anyone to know about that apart from us and the staff.”
His voice doesn’t broker questions. But I’m already sitting on the floor in my old sweaty gym clothes, and he’s still here, leaning against the wall like we’re hanging out. Any dignity I had is gone.
“How come?” I ask.
He looks from me to the line of gifts that litter the floor, sweeping his gaze from one to the next. “I don’t want anyone to know my grandfather wrote a clause like that into the will.”
“Oh,” I say. “I understand.”
He clears his throat and pushes away from the wall. “Take what you want from all of this up to your room. Throw out the rest.”
“I’ll donate what we don’t want,” I say. “Bonnie and I are writing thank-you notes tomorrow. Do you want—”
