Larissa's POV
"You're not wearing that."
I paused in front of my bedroom mirror, smoothing down the black dress I'd chosen for tonight. It was elegant, modest, appropriate for a birthday party. Everything Wesley's tone suggested it wasn't.
"What's wrong with it?" I turned to face him, already knowing this conversation wouldn't end well.
Wesley stood in my doorway, his perfectly styled dark hair gleaming under the overhead light. His expression held that familiar mix of disapproval and possession that made my stomach clench.
"It's boring, Rissa. This is Rachel's birthday. She's successful, connected. People will be there."
"People will be there to celebrate her, not judge my outfit."
He stepped into my room without invitation, moving to my closet with the confidence of someone who'd made himself at home in my space. His fingers rifled through my hanging clothes with practiced efficiency.
"Here." He pulled out a red dress I'd forgotten I owned. The neckline plunged deep, the hemline barely covered what needed covering. "This one."
"Wesley, that's way too revealing for—"
"For what? For my girlfriend to look stunning?" His smile didn't reach his eyes. "You have an incredible body, Rissa. Why hide it?"
The familiar weight of exhaustion settled on my shoulders. I'd worked another long day at Gary Enterprises, my feet ached from heels, and my brain felt fried from reviewing marketing campaigns. The last thing I wanted was to argue about a dress.
But something in his tone made me bristle. "I'm not hiding anything. I just prefer—"
"What you prefer isn't always what's best." He held the red dress against me, his hands lingering on my waist. "Trust me on this. You'll thank me later."
I stared at my reflection with him behind me, holding that ridiculous dress. When had I become the kind of woman who let her boyfriend pick her clothes? When had I stopped fighting these little battles?
"Everyone needs to know you're taken," he continued, his voice softer now, more persuasive. "Especially at parties like this."
The territorial undertone in his words should have bothered me more than it did. Instead, I found myself nodding, too tired to keep fighting.
"Fine. But if I'm uncomfortable—"
"You won't be." He kissed my temple, already moving toward the door. "I'll wait in the living room while you change."
A short time later, I stood in front of Rachel's penthouse door, tugging at the hem of the red dress and questioning every decision that had led to this moment. The fabric clung to every curve, and the neckline made me hyperaware of how much skin was on display.
"Stop fidgeting," Wesley murmured, straightening his tie. "You look perfect."
Perfect for what, exactly? But before I could voice the question, the door swung open.
"Larissa!" Rachel's smile was radiant, her gold sequined dress catching the light from the chandelier behind her. "You made it!"
She pulled me into a hug that smelled of expensive perfume and champagne. Over her shoulder, I could see the party in full swing. Beautiful people in beautiful clothes, holding beautiful drinks, having what looked like beautiful conversations.
"Happy birthday, Rachel. You look amazing."
"So do you!" Her eyes swept over my dress with obvious approval. "Red is definitely your color."
Wesley's hand found the small of my back, his touch possessive. "I told her the same thing."
"You have excellent taste," Rachel said to him, though her smile seemed to linger a beat too long. "Come in, come in. The party's just getting started."
The penthouse buzzed with energy. Conversations flowed over carefully curated music, laughter punctuated the ambient noise, and servers moved seamlessly through the crowd with trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres.
"I'm going to grab us drinks," Wesley said, already scanning the room. "Your usual?"
"Just wine, thanks."
He disappeared into the crowd, leaving me to navigate the social landscape alone. I recognized some faces from Rachel's real estate world, others from college, but the mix felt carefully orchestrated. This wasn't just a birthday party. It was networking disguised as celebration.
"Rissa!" A familiar voice cut through the chatter.
Denise appeared at my side like a guardian angel, her blonde hair falling in waves around her shoulders. She wore a simple black dress that somehow made her look more elegant than half the room.
"Thank God you're here," I said, genuine relief flooding through me. "I was starting to feel like a fraud."
"In that dress? You look like a knockout." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Let me guess. Wesley picked it out."
Heat crept up my neck. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only because I know you. And because it screams 'look but don't touch, she's mine.'" Denise's expression softened. "Not that you don't look gorgeous. You do. It's just very... territorial."
"He said people needed to know I was taken."
"At a birthday party?" She raised an eyebrow. "Honey, the only person who needs to know you're taken is you. And you already do."
Before I could respond, a man with a carefully sculpted man-bun appeared beside us, his smile a little too practiced, his approach a little too smooth.
"I don't think we've met," he said, extending his hand to me. "I'm Walton."
"Larissa. And this is my friend, Denise."
His handshake lingered longer than necessary. "Are you in real estate too?"
"Marketing," I replied, gently extracting my hand.
"Interesting. Maybe we could—"
"She's here with someone," Denise interrupted smoothly. "Her boyfriend."
Walton's smile faltered slightly. "Of course. Well, enjoy the party."
As he melted back into the crowd, I glanced around for Wesley. He'd been gone longer than it took to get two drinks.
"Where did he disappear to?" Denise followed my gaze.
"Good question." Irritation prickled at my chest. "He better not be smoking. He promised he'd quit."
"Want me to help you look?"
"No, I'll find him." I squeezed her arm. "Save me some of whatever you're drinking. It looks better than wine."
The penthouse was larger than it had seemed from the entrance. I wound through conversations and clusters of people, checking the balcony, the kitchen, even the guest bathroom. No Wesley.
The music seemed louder as I moved toward the back of the apartment, or maybe it was just my growing annoyance making everything feel more intense. How hard was it to get two drinks and come back?
A hallway stretched beyond the main living areas, presumably leading to bedrooms. I almost turned back, but then I heard something. Voices. Muffled but urgent.
My feet carried me forward before my brain could question the wisdom of following strange noises at a party. The sounds grew clearer as I approached a door that was slightly ajar, warm light spilling through the crack.
Not voices. Sounds. Rhythmic, breathless, unmistakable.
My hand pressed against the door before I could stop myself. It swung open with a soft creak.
The scene that greeted me hit like a physical blow. Wesley, his shirt discarded, his hands tangled in familiar gold sequined fabric that was now bunched around someone's waist. Rachel, her back arched, her face flushed with pleasure as she moved against him.
They were so lost in each other they didn't notice the door opening. Didn't notice me standing there, my world tilting sideways as everything I thought I knew crumbled around me.
"What the fuck?"