POV James
"You make a stunning couple."
The words follow us through the ballroom like a verdict, repeated by every society vulture circling the Harrington Foundation gala. Our first public appearance as an engaged couple, and every eye in the room tracks our movements with predatory interest.
My hand rests at the small of Caroline's back, my palm pressed against emerald silk that slides beneath my fingers like water. The contact is electric—my body remembers hers before my mind can intervene, muscle memory betraying every careful wall I've constructed.
She leans into me for the photographers, her fingers curling around my arm with practiced intimacy. The flash of cameras catches the single strand of pearls at her throat, drawing the eye downward to the architecture of her collarbones, the pale column of her neck rising from that devastating green fabric.
I force myself to look away. I fail.
"Relax your jaw," I murmur against her hair. "You're grinding your teeth so hard I can hear it."
"I'm imagining it's your windpipe."
"Charming. Save that energy for the bedroom."
Her fingers tighten on my arm, nails biting through my jacket sleeve. The small pain sends heat straight down my spine.
"James, darling." Eleanor Whitmore descends upon us. "And this must be the Ellsworth girl. I knew your brother, you know. Such a tragedy. And of course, I was very close with Lucy."
She produces a framed photograph. Lucy and William, their heads bent together in shared laughter.
"The perfect couple," Eleanor coos. "A reminder of what we've all lost."
Caroline's face goes blank. Her breathing changes—shallow, rapid.
"How thoughtful," she manages. "If you'll excuse me—"
I extract her smoothly, pulling her onto the dance floor as the orchestra begins a waltz. My arm circles her waist, drawing her close enough that we can speak without being overheard.
"What are you doing?" she hisses.
"Saving you from making a scene." My hand spreads across the small of her back, feeling the tension coiled beneath the emerald silk. "Dance with me. Smile. And say whatever you need to say where no one can hear it."
She's furious. The rage radiates from her like heat, and yet—God help me—she's never looked more beautiful. The flush climbing her throat makes me want to press my mouth to her pulse point. The fire in those gray-green eyes makes me remember the last time I saw her this undone.
That night. The hotel room. Her body arching beneath mine in the dark.
She'd been desperate then, drowning in grief, using me to forget. But even through the alcohol and the urgency, there had been moments—her nails dragging down my back, her teeth grazing my shoulder, the sounds she made when I found exactly the right angle.
I wonder what she'd be like angry.
The thought burns through me as we turn across the floor. I imagine her fury translating into something else entirely—that sharp tongue silenced against my mouth, those cutting remarks dissolved into gasps, all that rage channeled into heat and friction and the kind of surrender that leaves marks.
"Your sister killed my brother," she whispers, and the venom in her voice only makes the wanting worse. "And I'm expected to smile at their photographs like she was some kind of saint."
"Caroline—"
"Don't." Her fingers dig into my shoulder. "Don't you dare defend her to me. Lucy was behind the wheel. Lucy was responsible. And now I have to stand in rooms full of people who worship her memory while my brother rots in the ground because of her."
"It was icy roads. An accident—"
"An accident she caused." We spin past a cluster of watching guests, and Caroline's smile is razor-sharp, performed perfectly even as venom drips from her whispered words. "Your precious sister thought she was invincible. The golden child who could do no wrong. Will was careful—he was always careful. But Lucy? She took him from me, and everyone mourns her like she was a victim instead of the reason my twin is dead."
The words land like blows. I should be angry. I should defend my sister's memory.
Instead, I pull her closer, close enough that her breath warms my jaw, and I'm thinking about how she tasted that night. Vodka and grief and something underneath that was purely her. I'm thinking about the weight of her in my arms, the way she went boneless against me afterward, the vulnerability she showed for exactly thirty seconds before rebuilding her walls.
I want to tear those walls down again. I want to see what's underneath when she's not drowning in grief but burning with fury.
"I loved my sister." The confession scrapes out of me, raw and unguarded. "I loved her, and I also wanted what she had. Both things are true, and I hate myself for the second one."
Caroline's step falters. I steady her automatically, my hand tightening at her waist, feeling the curve of her hip beneath my palm.
"What?" she breathes.
"Lucy mattered from the moment she was born. I was the spare. The contingency. The brother who would only become relevant if something happened to the firstborn." I guide us through another turn, my lips nearly brushing her ear. The scent of her perfume makes me dizzy. "Something happened. And I hate myself for the relief I felt. The grief is real, but so is the gratitude, and I can't separate them."
Her body softens against mine, the rigid fury melting into something more complicated. I'm acutely aware of everywhere we touch—my hand at her waist, her fingers against my chest, the whisper of her thigh against mine as we move. The dress is thin enough that I can feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric.
That night, she wore black. Something simple that pooled at her feet the moment I unzipped it. I remember the pale length of her spine in the dim light, the way she shivered when my mouth found the hollow of her throat.
I want that again. I want it different—slower, deliberate, with both of us sober enough to remember every detail.
The music swells toward its crescendo. Caroline's hand has softened on my shoulder, her body no longer rigid with rage but thoughtful, calculating.
I recognize that look. I've worn it myself in boardrooms, that expression of someone piecing together an angle no one else has seen.
The waltz ends. We stop moving, but I don't release her. My hand remains at her waist, her fingers still curled against my chest. Around us, couples break apart, applaud politely, drift toward new partners and fresh glasses of champagne.
Caroline looks up at me, and something shifts in her expression. The anger has banked into something sharper, more dangerous.
"What if neither of us had to do this?" she asks quietly. "What if there was another way?"