Obsessed with the senator's fiancée

ARABELLA “You're late.” Max didn't apologize. He simply closed the door behind him and looked at me. For a second, neither of us said anything. His eyes moved slowly over me, taking in the burgundy dress, the bare curve of my shoulders, the diamond at my throat, and finally the ring on my left hand. His mouth curved. “You're trying to kill me tonight.” I glanced at the clock. “Seven minutes.” “Seven very long minutes.” I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling. Max crossed the room, stopping directly in front of me. He reached for my hand, lifting it between us so the engagement ring caught the light. “I told you this would look better with your hair up.” “My hair is fine.” “I know.” His thumb brushed over my knuckles. “I just like you better when I can see your neck.” I gave him a look. “That sounded dangerously close to a compliment.” “It was.” He leaned down and kissed me. It was slow at first, familiar and warm, the kind of kiss that came easily after two years together. Max always kissed me like he knew exactly where he belonged. His hand settled at my waist. I pulled back slightly. “We have a gala.” “I know.” “People are waiting.” “I know.” “Your mother is probably already asking where we are.” His smile widened. “Let her wait.” I laughed. Max kissed the corner of my mouth before straightening my necklace. “There.” I frowned. “What?” “The clasp was crooked.” “You could've told me.” “I fixed it.” There was nothing particularly wrong with the gesture. That was the thing about Max. Most of the things he did were difficult to object to. He remembered how I took my coffee. He knew which flowers I liked. He called when I had long meetings and sent cars when it rained. He never forgot an anniversary or birthday. He also knew exactly which dress he preferred me to wear, which restaurants were appropriate for certain people, which photographs of us should never reach the press, and which events I could not afford to miss. Max didn't believe in leaving things to chance. Especially not me. “You're wearing the earrings I gave you,” he said. “I am.” “Good.” I raised an eyebrow. “Good?” “They suit you.” “Thank you, Senator.” His expression changed immediately. “Don't call me that.” “Why?” “Because tonight I'm just your fiancé.” Something softened in me. That was the version of Max I loved. The private one. The man who could stand in front of a thousand people without blinking but still got strangely quiet when it was just us. He took my hand. “Ready?” I nodded. “Ready.” The ballroom glittered when we walked in. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling like suspended stars. Champagne moved through the crowd on silver trays. Politicians stood beside actors. Athletes laughed with billionaires. Everyone looked beautiful. Everyone was watching. Max's hand settled at the small of my back. Not quite possessive. Just enough to remind me he was there. “Smile,” he murmured. I smiled. “Not that smile.” I glanced at him. “What?” “The one you use when you're working.” I almost laughed. “I am working.” “You're allowed to enjoy yourself.” “I'll try.” “Good girl.” The words were quiet enough that no one else heard them. I looked at him. He smiled as though he hadn't said anything unusual. Then the cameras appeared. I slipped naturally into the version of myself I'd spent years perfecting. Arabella Montgomery. Founder and CEO of MONTÉ. Image strategist. Philanthropist. Daughter of Justice Helena Montgomery. Fiancée to Senator Maximilian Beaumont. Perfect. I lifted my hand slightly as the photographers called our names. The diamond flashed. Max leaned closer. “Beautiful.” I knew he meant the picture. Still, I let myself believe he meant me. For the next hour, I shook hands, smiled for photographs, discussed MONTÉ's newest political campaign, and listened to people tell me how lucky I was. Lucky. That word followed me everywhere. Lucky to have been adopted by Helena Montgomery. Lucky to have built MONTÉ. Lucky to be engaged to Max. I had learned a long time ago that people loved simple stories. They loved perfect ones even more. “Arabella.” I turned. Zara stood beside me, holding two champagne glasses. “I've been looking for you.” “You found me.” “I did.” She handed me a glass. “And I brought you a problem.” “That doesn't sound like champagne.” “It isn't.” I sighed. “What happened?” She glanced toward the entrance. “New client.” “I have three new clients.” “This one's different.” “Why?” “Because he's probably going to triple our sports division revenue in a year.” I groaned. “Zara.” “And because he specifically asked for MONTÉ.” “Then assign him to someone.” “I tried.” She smiled. “He asked for you.” I shook my head. “Absolutely not.” “You haven't even met him.” “I don't need another demanding client.” “He's not demanding.” Zara's eyes flicked over my shoulder. “He's just very…persistent.” Something about her tone made me turn. And then the entire room disappeared. For one impossible second, I couldn't breathe. He stood near the entrance in a black tuxedo, one hand in his pocket, listening to a man beside him. Older. Broader. Sharper. The boy I remembered had been all restless limbs and impossible confidence. This man looked like he'd learned exactly what the world could take from him—and decided it would never take anything again. My fingers tightened around the champagne glass. No. It couldn't be. Seven years. Seven years since I'd seen him. Seven years since he'd promised me he would come back. Seven years since he disappeared. “Arabella?” Zara's voice sounded very far away. I couldn't take my eyes off him. As if he felt me staring, the man turned. Our eyes met. Everything inside me went still. Damien Kingsley. He looked at me for one long second. Then his gaze dropped. To my hand. To the ring. Something dark crossed his face. And then he looked back into my eyes. Max appeared beside me. “Who is that?” I couldn't answer. Damien started walking toward us. One step. Then another. Until there was nothing left between us but seven years of silence. Max's hand tightened around my waist. Damien stopped in front of us. His eyes never left mine. “Arabella.” My name sounded different in his mouth. Like it belonged to a life I'd buried. I swallowed. “Damien.” Max looked between us. Then he extended his hand. “Maximilian Beaumont.” Damien's gaze finally shifted to him. He took the offered hand. “Damien Kingsley.” Their handshake lasted exactly two seconds. It was enough. “This is my fiancé,” I said. I didn't know why I said it so quickly. Damien's jaw tightened. “I can see that.” Max smiled. The smile he used for cameras. The one that never reached his eyes. “Good to meet you.” Damien looked back at me. “Likewise.” It was a lie. We both knew it. Zara cleared her throat. “So,” she said brightly, “about that meeting…” Damien's eyes remained on mine. “I don't mind waiting until you make time for me.” My heart stumbled. Max's hand pressed more firmly against my waist. And for the first time that evening, his smile disappeared. Seven years had done many things to me. Apparently, forgetting Damien Kingsley wasn't one of them.