[POV Ariel]
It was supposed to be a tribute—a final, glittering farewell to Richard Wayne, hosted in the grandest ballroom in Seattle.
Officially, it was a memorial gala: a sophisticated blend of mourning and prestige, attended by every power player who owed Richard a favor, feared his memory, or hoped to curry favor with his legacy.
Unofficially, it was a spectacle. The kind of event where grief wore diamonds and condolences came with business cards. The media called it a celebration of life, but for many in the room, it was just another opportunity to be seen.
For me, it was something else entirely.
All of Seattle’s elite were here, pressed into floor-length gowns and tailored tuxedos, sipping wine and murmuring tributes to a man they respected more in death than they had in life.
Richard Wayne. My mentor. My guide. The closest thing to a father I’d ever had. And tonight, I had to smile through it all with Sloane at my side.
My husband in name. My opponent in everything else.
Except lately, he hadn’t felt like an opponent at all. And that terrified me more than any enemy ever could.
"Ready?" he asked beside me, offering his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I stared at it for a moment. Broad. Steady. Familiar.
We’d practiced this dance a dozen times in the living room. Me barefoot, him in slacks with the top buttons of his shirt undone. We’d stumbled through steps, bickered about timing, laughed once or twice when I tripped over his feet. He always caught me.
But this wasn’t practice.
This was hundreds of eyes. This was legacy and image and pressure in every direction. This was his father’s memory and my heart bruised and raw, and the soft sting of grief like a film over my skin.
And yet I took his hand.
Because for all our bitterness, all the complications wrapped around us like thorns—we could move together. And that had to count for something.
Sloane led me to the center of the floor just as the strings swelled, placing one hand at the small of my back, the other curling around my fingers with a grip firm enough to hold me together.
The moment we moved, it was like the world slowed.
The notes pulsed through the air in steady, swirling waves, and my body remembered everything—every pivot, every step, every turn—because dancing with Sloane wasn’t about remembering. It was about feeling.
And I felt everything.
The heat of his hand through the silk of my dress. The faintest flex of his thigh brushing mine with each step. The way his breath ghosted against my temple when he leaned in slightly to guide me through a spin. The scent of his cologne—clean and warm and something like cedar, something that reminded me of fall nights and the safety of deep shadows.
We moved in perfect time.
His body steered me with effortless control, not overbearing, not demanding—just there. Confident. Certain. The kind of leadership I hated admitting I trusted.
“You’re tense,” he murmured.
I blinked. “I’m fine.”
His gaze dropped to mine. “Liar.”
I didn’t respond. Couldn’t.
Because it wasn’t just the dance. It was the weight of Richard’s memory pressing down on me. The knowledge that he should’ve been here, standing proud, watching us with that quiet gleam of approval in his eyes.
Instead, it was his son—the man who’d walked away from him, from all of this—who held me now.
And I didn’t want to let go.
Not because of the crowd.
But because something about the way he looked at me—steady, grounded, unreadable—made me feel like I wasn’t alone in this grief.
Like maybe he felt it too.
“Sloane…” I whispered, not even sure what I was asking.
His hand tightened at my waist. “Don’t think. Just dance.”
So I did.
I let the music move us.
I let myself lean into the rhythm of his body, the warmth of his touch, the rare, quiet steadiness of him that didn’t ask anything from me but presence.
When he spun me out, then pulled me back in, I landed against his chest with a soft thud, my palm flattening against his chest where his heart beat—strong, fast, real.
Our faces were too close.
I could see the shadow of stubble along his jaw. The soft twitch of his throat as he swallowed. The way his eyes dropped—first to my mouth, then slowly back up, catching mine.
The world tilted.
He didn’t say a word.
And I didn’t step back.
The music slowed, drawing to a close like a held breath—and still, he didn’t move.
Neither did I.
He leaned in—just slightly. Barely enough to count. But I felt it. Felt the tension in him, the heat between us, the question trembling in the air between our lips.
And God help me—I wanted to say yes.
I wanted him to kiss me.
Just once.
Just to know what it would feel like to stop pretending, just for a second, and give in to whatever the hell this was becoming.
But before either of us could close the space—applause broke the spell.
A ripple of polite clapping filled the ballroom, punctuated with champagne glasses clinking and voices rising in forced celebration.
Sloane exhaled, stepping back just enough to sever the moment.
He let go of my hand last.
And when he turned to acknowledge the crowd, his face was blank again—businesslike, distant.
I followed suit.
But I felt the phantom press of his hand against my back long after it was gone.