Enemies under one roof

Chapter 3

"Say it again," I whispered into the dark. "Slowly. Because I think I've just had a stroke."

"You haven't had a stroke."

"Then I've had a very specific hallucination in which my husband tells me my father was murdered and a person I trust is responsible. It's been a long week. The brain does strange things."

Daniel turned on his side to face me, and even in the half light, I could see the tension in his shoulders, the careful stillness of a man defusing something. "I'm not going to tell you the name tonight."

"Excuse me?"

"Not until I'm sure." His voice dropped, gentle and firm at once. "If I give you a name now, you'll act on it. You'll call, you'll confront, you'll look at that person differently over breakfast, and they'll know. They've been patient for two years, Sophia. People like that notice when the air changes."

"So I'm supposed to lie awake next to you and wonder which of the eleven people I love is a killer?"

"Eleven?" One dark eyebrow lifted. "That's a generous number."

"I'm very likable."

"You threatened to hex me in a parking structure."

"Which proves my point. Passionate. Loyal. Fun at parties."

The corner of his mouth twitched, and some of the awful pressure in my chest eased, just a little. Humor was his weapon and, I was beginning to suspect, his armor too. I decided to hate that I understood it.

"Tomorrow night," he said, "there's a charity gala at the Meridian. Four hundred guests, half the city's old money, and everyone who matters in your father's world and mine. I need you there. I need you to smile, and dance, and be the happiest bride in New York. And I need you to watch."

"Watch what?"

"Who watches you."

A chill traced my arms. "You want me to be a decoy."

"I want you to be careful." He hesitated. "And I want you to let me stay close. Closer than the rules allow."

I should have said no. I should have reminded him that rule two forbids interference, that I did not need a billionaire's protection, that I could burn a man's life down with nothing but a spreadsheet and a grudge. Instead, I heard myself say, in a voice that did not sound like mine, "Fine. But if you step on my dress, I'm going to push you into the fountain."

"The Meridian has a fountain?"

"They all have fountains. It's a rich person requirement."

His laugh was soft and startled, and it did something terrible to the dark between us, warming it, shrinking it, until I could feel my own pulse in my fingertips. I turned over fast and stared at the wall, and neither of us said another word.

I did not sleep. I counted the seconds between his breaths instead, which was worse.

The next morning, my mother called three times before nine. I let it ring. I wasn't ready to ask about the anonymous checks, not yet, not while my head was full of police reports and photographs and questions without answers. Instead I sat on the edge of a bathtub the size of a swimming pool and gave myself a short, vicious pep talk in the mirror.

"You are a Bennett," I told my reflection. "You do not faint. You do not cry before noon. You will walk into that gala and you will be so dazzling that every villain in the building trips over their own shoes."

My reflection looked unconvinced. She had mascara smudges and bed hair and the beginnings of a nervous breakdown.

By seven that evening, however, I had been transformed.

Daniel's stylist, a terrifying woman named Odette who spoke exclusively in sighs, had zipped me into a gown the color of midnight, silk that slid over my skin like poured water and dipped low enough in the back to feel illegal. My hair was swept up. My lips were red. I looked like a woman with a plan, which was funny, because I had approximately none.

When I stepped into the hall, Daniel was waiting by the elevator in a black tuxedo that fit him like sin, and I swear the man forgot how to speak.

His eyes traveled over me slowly, from the pins in my hair to the curve of my bare shoulders, to the long line of silk skimming my hips. I watched his throat move as he swallowed. For a second, his composure cracked wide open, and what lay beneath was so naked and so hungry that my knees nearly gave out.

"Well?" I said, lifting my chin. "Say something cutting. I can take it."

"You look," he said hoarsely, "like a problem."

"I'll take that."

"I wasn't complimenting you."

"Of course not."

He offered his arm. I took it, and the heat of him seeped through the fabric, steady and solid, and we rode down in silence while my heart tried to climb out through my ribs.

The Meridian ballroom was a fever dream of chandeliers and champagne. Crystal everywhere, strings playing something sweeping and tragic, hundreds of faces turning as we entered. I felt the weight of every stare like a hand on my skin. Daniel's palm settled at the small of my back, warm and possessive, and the whispers rose around us like smoke.

"Smile," he murmured, lips brushing my ear. "They're looking at you like you're the eighth wonder."

"They're looking at me like I'm the gold digger who trapped you."

"Then let's give them a show."

He spun me onto the dance floor before I could protest. One moment I was standing, and the next I was swept into his arms, his hand firm at my waist, my fingers curled against his shoulder. He danced the way he did everything else, effortlessly, with a precise, quiet confidence that made me forget to be angry.

"You can dance," I accused.

"My grandmother had standards."

"Where did she keep them? In a vault?"

"Beside my emotional baggage. Keep your eyes on me, Sophia."

I did. God help me, I did. The room blurred into candlelight and gold, and all that remained was the gray of his eyes, the slow circle of his thumb against my spine, the way his breath hitched when I stepped closer than the choreography demanded. His forehead tipped toward mine. Our mouths were inches apart, and the music was a distant roar, and I thought, very clearly, that if he kissed me now, I would not stop him.

"Rule one," he whispered, and his voice shook.

"I know."

"I'm trying."

"I know."

"You're making it extraordinarily difficult."

"Welcome to my life," I breathed.

He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he looked wrecked, and I think I might have leaned in, I truly think I might have, if a voice hadn't cut across the music, warm and rich and achingly familiar.

"There she is. My girl."

Every muscle in my body went cold.

I turned slowly. A silver-haired man in a perfect navy suit was crossing the ballroom toward us, arms already open, his smile crinkling the corners of his kind, tired eyes. Raymond Hale. My father's oldest friend. My godfather. The man who had held my hand at the funeral, who had paid for my mother's groceries, who had told me, a thousand times, that he would do anything to protect our family.

The man who had taught me how to ride a bike.

Daniel's fingers tightened around mine until it almost hurt. His lips barely moved against my ear, so quiet that only I could hear.

"That's him, Sophia," he breathed. "That's the name on the report."