[POV Ariel]
Hosting a dinner party with your emotionally unavailable fake husband is exactly as glamorous as it sounds.
At 3 p.m., I stood in the middle of Sloane’s gourmet kitchen—barefoot, hair twisted into a messy knot, sleeves rolled past my elbows—and stared at the table settings like they were a military operation.
He, of course, looked like he’d stepped out of a luxury fashion ad, leaning against the counter in a white button-down and slacks, sipping from a whiskey tumbler like the evening ahead was nothing but a casual chess match.
“We’re expecting six,” I said, checking the guest list again. “Two from Harrington Capital, one from Forbes, and a couple from Montgomery & Wiles.”
“You’re forgetting the startup kid. Emerson something. Probably still thinks dinner parties mean tacos and kombucha.”
“I added an extra place setting,” I replied coolly. “And a vegan entrée option. Because I plan ahead.”
His mouth twitched. “Color me impressed.”
I didn’t respond. Not because I had nothing to say, but because if I said what I was thinking—if you’d let me do this my way, it would’ve been done yesterday—we’d be back to shouting before the canapés even hit the oven.
Instead, I adjusted a linen napkin folded into a perfect fan and tried to ignore the strange sensation crawling under my skin: we’d been working in the same room for over an hour… and we weren’t fighting.
Not really.
He didn’t override my menu. I didn’t question his wine pairings. We found a rhythm. Me with the details, him with the pacing. Like we were... compatible.
Which was terrifying.
By 7:15, I had changed into a soft rose gold dress with thin straps and a daring dip in the back. Elegant, classic—strategically chosen for charm and weaponization. I applied my lipstick with a steady hand, even though my pulse had started picking up the closer we got to showtime.
Sloane met me at the living room bar with a crystal decanter in hand. When he turned and saw me, he didn’t say anything right away.
His eyes dipped once—shoulders to hem to bare back—and something flickered behind them. Not the usual condescension. Something slower. Darker. Caught.
“You clean up well,” he murmured.
I arched a brow. “You should see me when I’m actually trying.”
His mouth quirked—just slightly—and then the doorbell rang, and the moment shattered like spun sugar.
We played our parts.
Hand on the small of my back, he guided me through every introduction. Our guests were charmed. Laughing, curious, impressed. To them, we were the golden couple—brilliant, beautiful, powerful.
And oddly, we didn’t have to fake it as much as I thought we would.
Halfway through dinner, someone asked how we met.
Sloane answered without missing a beat. “She corrected me in a meeting. In front of twelve executives.”
“Oh?” one of the guests laughed. “And you weren’t offended?”
“I was furious,” he said with a slow smile. “Which is how I knew she was the only one in the room worth listening to.”
Laughter. Applause. Raised glasses.
But I was still reeling. Because that hadn’t been part of the script. That wasn’t something we rehearsed. That was… real.
I caught him watching me as I reached for my wine. He didn’t look away.
By the time the final guests left—buzzed and giddy and full of praise—it was nearly midnight. My feet ached. My throat was dry. But somehow, I didn’t want the night to end.
“Successful enough?” I asked, easing off my heels and collapsing into the couch.
Sloane loosened his tie, poured two fingers of bourbon, and passed me one without comment. He took the seat beside me, both of us sinking into the cushions in matching silence.
He lifted his glass. “To deceiving billionaires with grace and charm.”
I tapped his. “To not killing each other in the process.”
We sipped. The city glittered outside the glass walls, reflected in the penthouse’s dim lighting. Our laughter had faded. But the closeness stayed.
I turned to him, and for once, he looked open. Quiet. Not guarded.
“Did you always want to take over the company?” I asked.
He shook his head. “God, no. I wanted to paint.”
My brows lifted. “Seriously?”
“Watercolor. Oils. My mother used to let me paint murals on the walls in the old townhouse. She’d just repaint them when I was done.”
“Sounds like a dream.”
He looked at the skyline. “It was. Until it wasn’t.”
I hesitated, then offered, “I used to write fairy tales. When I was little. Stories about girls who weren’t princesses, but still saved the kingdom.”
“That fits you.”
We fell into a silence that felt less like distance and more like rest.
I turned toward him, and our knees brushed. Just lightly. But the spark it sent up my spine was anything but small.
He noticed. Of course he did. His breath shifted. His hand hovered on the couch between us. My fingers ached to reach for his.
Neither of us moved.
We just sat there, too aware. Too afraid to ruin the moment by touching it.
“I should go change,” I said softly.
He nodded. “Yeah.”
But neither of us stood. The air between us pulsed. Heated. Waiting.
And then, as if called back by gravity, we broke apart—him to the kitchen, me to the hall.