Chapter Eight
1148 Words
The penthouse was too big when it was empty.
Mara woke to gray morning light and the smell of rain against glass. The left side of the bed was cold, the sheets barely creased where Rowan had lain for all of ninety seconds before the world yanked him away.
She stared at the ceiling for a long time, replaying every second of last night in excruciating detail: the way he’d tasted, the way he’d said baby like it hurt him, the way she’d almost let him inside her body the same way he’d already forced his way into every corner of her life.
She hated that she was worried about him.
She hated more that she was relieved nothing had actually happened.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Unknown number.
She answered, voice still rough from sleep.
“Miss Whitlock?” A woman, brisk and professional. “Mr. Vale asked me to inform you that his father is stable for now. He’ll be staying at the hospital today. The gala is still scheduled for tonight. A car will collect you at six-thirty. The red dress has been pressed.”
The line went dead.
Mara dropped the phone and buried her face in the pillow that still smelled faintly of his cologne.
Stable for now.
She didn’t know what to do with the relief that crashed through her.
She spent the day drifting through the penthouse like a ghost. She tried to work (answered emails, confirmed Rowan’s revised schedule), but every time she sat at the assistant desk outside his office, she remembered the weight of him on top of her, the way his mouth had felt on her throat.
By four o’clock she was a nervous wreck.
She showered twice, changed outfits three times, and finally stood in front of the mirror in the red dress.
It was sin in silk form: off-the-shoulder, fitted through the torso, flaring into a slit that climbed to mid-thigh. The stylist had paired it with delicate gold heels and a thin diamond choker that sat exactly where Rowan’s teeth had been last night.
She looked like the kind of woman who belonged on Rowan Vale’s arm.
She hated that she liked it.
At 6:28 the private elevator dinged.
Rowan stepped out.
He looked like hell warmed over: eyes red-rimmed, jaw shadowed with two days of stubble, tuxedo somehow still perfect even though he clearly hadn’t slept. He stopped when he saw her.
For a long moment they just stared.
Then he crossed the room in three strides, cupped her face in both hands, and kissed her.
Not like last night. Not hungry or demanding.
Soft. Careful. Almost grateful.
When he pulled back his thumbs brushed her cheeks like he was checking she was real.
“Thank you for coming tonight,” he said quietly. “I know you hate these things.”
Mara’s heart twisted. “How is he?”
“Conscious. Talking. Being a stubborn bastard, which means he’ll live.” A faint, exhausted smile. “Mom’s with him. She still wants to see you at the gala. Said it’ll give her something to smile about.”
He let go of her face, stepped back, and looked her over properly.
His gaze darkened.
“You’re trying to kill me in that dress.”
“You picked it.”
“I have excellent taste.”
He offered his arm. She took it.
The ride down to the car was silent, but his hand stayed on her lower back the entire time, thumb tracing small circles through the silk like he couldn’t stop touching her now that he’d started.
The gala was held in a ballroom that dripped money: crystal chandeliers, string quartet, champagne that cost more per bottle than Mara used to make in a week.
Rowan never left her side.
He introduced her as “my fiancée” with a possessive hand on her waist and a smile sharp enough to cut glass. Cameras flashed. People smiled too wide. Women looked at her like they were trying to figure out what magic spell she’d used.
Halfway through the evening Eleanor Vale found them.
She was frail, oxygen tubes discreetly tucked beneath a pale-gold gown, but her eyes were bright.
“Darling girl,” she said, pulling Mara into a hug that smelled like roses and hospital soap. “Rowan told me what happened last night. Thank you for being there for him.”
Mara’s throat closed. “I didn’t really......”
“You were exactly where he needed you to be.” Eleanor squeezed her hand. “He pretends he doesn’t need anyone. Don’t let him fool you.”
Rowan’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t argue.
Later, when Eleanor was whisked away by doctors and publicists, Rowan pulled Mara onto the mostly empty dance floor.
The quartet was playing something slow and aching.
He drew her in close, one hand low on her bare back, the other laced with hers.
“You okay?” he asked against her temple.
“Are you?”
He exhaled. “I will be.”
They swayed in silence for a minute.
Then Mara said, very quietly, “Last night didn’t happen.”
Rowan’s grip tightened. “Which part?”
“All of it.”
He pulled back just enough to look at her. “You sure that’s what you want?”
No. God, no.
But she nodded anyway.
Rowan studied her face for a long moment, something unreadable moving behind his eyes.
“Fine,” he said finally. “We forget it.”
He spun her once, smoothly, then brought her back in even closer.
“But just so we’re clear,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of her ear, “the next time you kiss me like that, I’m not stopping.”
Mara’s breath caught.
Before she could answer, a flash went off nearby, someone’s phone camera.
Rowan’s entire body went rigid.
He turned, expression turning arctic.
Across the room, Camille stood in a white gown that left nothing to the imagination, phone raised, smile venomous.
Next to her, Lucas looked pale and uncomfortable, but he didn’t stop her.
Camille lowered the phone slowly, blew Mara a kiss, and mouthed two words Rowan couldn’t see:
Found you.
Rowan’s hand slid to Mara’s waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
“Who is that?” he asked, voice lethal.
Mara swallowed.
“My sister.”
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