The engagement party is a blur. Lucien holds my hand the entire time, his thumb occasionally stroking my knuckles.
It's purely for show, I tell myself. For the eager paparazzi lurking outside. But my heart still flutters.
The grand ballroom feels like a scene stolen from a movie. Chandeliers drip crystal tears from the ceiling, reflecting off polished marble floors and the glittering array of Lucien Holt's guests.
Everyone here looks impossibly wealthy, impossibly confident, and utterly oblivious to the fact that their host's fiancée almost face-planted getting through that door.
My feet, encased in these impossibly high heels, are already staging a silent protest. I miss my sneakers like a lost limb.
Lucien's hand is still at my lower back, a light, guiding pressure that feels strangely proprietorial. He moves through the crowd like a king through his court, acknowledging greetings with a curt nod, a brief, unreadable smile.
I'm just trying not to trip over my own feet, or spill champagne on this stupid expensive dress.
"Darcy," he murmurs, his voice low, close to my ear, sending a ridiculous shiver down my spine. "Smile. You look like you're attending your own execution."
"I am," I whisper back, a forced smile plastered on my face. "Just waiting for the guillotine."
He doesn't reply, but I feel the subtle rumble of a chuckle in his chest. Or maybe it's just my imagination, powered by panic and too much hairspray.
The evening is a blur of introductions.
Henderson, appearing out of nowhere like a well-dressed ninja, seems to materialize powerful people in front of us.
"This is Mr. Thorne, CEO of Thorne Tech," Henderson would say, then Lucien would nod, and I would offer my practiced 'shy-bride' smile.
My brain tries to process the names, the companies, the hushed power plays happening around me, but it's like trying to debug a thousand lines of code while wearing a straitjacket.
Everyone looks at me with a mixture of curiosity and thinly covered assessment.
I am, quite literally, a new acquisition.
My jaw aches from smiling. My feet scream from the heels. My brain buzzes from the sheer amount of meaningless small talk.
"Lovely to meet you. Yes, quite. Oh, absolutely."
My conversational skills, usually reserved for arguing with uncooperative servers, are severely strained.
Then, the moment arrives. Lucien taps a glass with a spoon, and the entire room falls silent. All eyes, a thousand glittering points of light, turn to us.
My heart attempts to escape through my throat.
Lucien, perfectly poised, raises his glass.
"Friends, colleagues, thank you for joining us tonight. As many of you know, Holt Industries is always looking to the future. And tonight, I'm delighted to introduce the future of my personal life."
He turns to me, his dark eyes momentarily softening, or at least, appearing to. He places his hand over mine, his fingers warm and firm.
It's a surprisingly intimate gesture, and my breath catches.
This is for the cameras. This is for the illusion. My mind knows that. My skin, apparently, didn't get the memo.
"Please raise your glasses with me," Lucien's voice rings out, strong and clear, "and toast to my fiancée, Darcy Quinn. Welcome to the family, my love."
A wave of applause, a chorus of "To Darcy!", and a thousand eyes scrutinizing my reaction. I manage another wobbly smile, feeling the heat creep up my neck.
I want to pull my hand away, but Lucien's grip is solid, anchoring me to this ridiculous performance.
Welcome to the family.
It sounds so utterly fake, it almost makes me laugh out loud.
The rest of the night is a continuation of the same. More introductions, more polite chatter, more aching feet. I walk around the room on autopilot, nodding, smiling, wondering if anyone else can see the panic flickering in my eyes.
I catch Lucien's gaze across the room sometimes, and he's always watching me, a faint, unreadable intensity in his eyes.
Is he judging my performance? Or just making sure I haven't run screaming from the room?
Hours later, I'm pretty sure my face is frozen in a rictus of polite agony. My feet feel like they've been run over by a truck. The air is thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the lingering aroma of ambition.
I'm starting to think about how many lines of code I could have written in the time I've spent pretending to care about the intricacies of the global stock market.
Suddenly, Lucien is by my side. He doesn't say anything, just takes my elbow gently.
"Time for a brief reprieve, Mrs. Holt." His voice is for my ears only.
He guides me through a less crowded section of the ballroom, away from the eyes and the clinking glasses. We reach a discreet door, and he opens it, ushering me into a quiet hallway.
"You look..." his gaze sweeps over me, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, "as though you've just wrestled a lion."
"More like several hundred," I retort, rubbing my temples. "And they were all wearing designer labels. My feet are in a blood feud with these shoes."
A faint smile plays on his lips.
"Perhaps I overestimated your endurance for social rituals."
"Perhaps you overestimated my ability to survive in environments without a functioning keyboard and at least fifty feet of Ethernet cable," I shoot back. "Consider it a weakness. Like... your apparent inability to make small talk without sounding like a corporate report."
His smirk widens. "Touché, Ms. Quinn. Or should I say, Mrs. Holt?"
"You just signed the contract," I remind him. "You bought the title. Not the personality."
"And yet," he says, his eyes sparkling with an unexpected glint of mischief, "your personality seems to be a rather persistent bonus."
He takes my arm again, this time guiding me towards another elevator.
"Come. I believe you're in need of a moment of peace. And perhaps, a different pair of shoes."
The elevator ride is silent, just the two of us. I lean my head back against the cool paneling, closing my eyes. My body aches.
When the doors open, we're in a private suite, a smaller, more intimate version of his grand office, with soft lighting and a surprisingly comfortable-looking couch.
"Refresh yourself," he commands gently, gesturing towards a closed door. "We have one more engagement tonight."
"Another party?" My voice is laced with dread.
He shakes his head. "No. Dinner."
I nod, moving towards the door. My muscles whine with every step. Just as I reach it, his voice stops me.
"Darcy."
I turn. He's standing by the window, silhouetted against the city lights. He looks impossibly handsome, almost cinematic.
My breath hitches because what is all this?
He walks towards me, slowly. When he stops in front of me, the air burns.
His hand twitches on his side like it would rather be anywhere else.
"You performed admirably tonight," he murmurs, his voice a low, rough whisper that vibrates through me. "More than admirably in fact."
My breathing turns shallow. His eyes are dark, intense, burning into mine. My lips part slightly.
My entire body hums with a tense, helpless awareness.
His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering there, then slowly, deliberately, returns to my eyes.
What are you doing Lucien?
I want to scream and run into the bathroom but I'm frozen. My hands clench, longing to reach out, to pull him closer and maybe slap him for making my pulse race this much.
I clear my throat, looking away.
"Go," he murmurs, his eyes still dark. "We'll be late."
I stumble into the bathroom, my mind a dizzying swirl of champagne, high heels, and the unexpected heat of Lucien Holt's gaze.
I splash cold water on my face, but it does little to cool the flush on my cheeks.
Dead Mrs. Lucien Holt...
This was going to be a long year.