Grayson and Nathan shook hands like they were old friends—if old friends were sharks, each circling the other in blood-scented waters. That same polished, predatory grin tugged at both their mouths, sharp and too rehearsed to be real. I ignored the silent duel between them and turned to Lauren, my face breaking into a genuine smile. It had been months, and seeing her felt like a breath of normalcy in a room that reeked of power games and politics.
"You look incredible," I said, pulling her into a warm, lingering hug. Her perfume—something floral with an edge of spice—clung to the air between us.
She stepped back and gave me a quick once-over. "You too! Can I see the back?"
I turned, the fabric of my dress sweeping softly against my legs. A low whistle escaped her lips.
"Wow. Doesn't she look amazing?" she said, tossing the compliment over her shoulder like bait cast into dark waters.
Nathan's gaze didn't stray from Lauren. Possessiveness flickered in his eyes as he raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles slowly. "I have eyes only for you," he said, voice low and velvet-smooth, but with the unmistakable edge of warning.
Lauren offered me a tight, slightly embarrassed smile. "I should find Clarissa, but let's catch up later?"
"Definitely." I nodded, more relieved than I wanted to admit as she and Nathan disappeared into the crowd. With
testosterone bouncing off the walls like live ammunition, girl talk was officially postponed.
I turned back to Grayson. "You really don't like him, do you?"
His hand slid around my waist, the pressure firm and strangely cold through the silk of my dress. "It's not about liking
him. It's instinct. Self-preservation. That man's dangerous."
"That's the Christmas spirit," I muttered, my sarcasm sharper than I intended.
A flicker crossed Grayson's mouth—too brief to place. Was it amusement? Annoyance? Whatever it was, it vanished before I could catch it.
"Want to get something to eat?" he asked, brushing it off.
"God, yes." After two days of green juice and boiled chicken, I was ready to trade my soul for carbs. We weaved
through the glittering chaos of the DeTrolio estate—champagne flutes clinking, chandeliers twinkling like they were in
on some grand secret—and I leaned in closer.
"Where's your father?" I asked.
Grayson's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Stepping back from the spotlight. Doesn't want to
overshadow us."
His voice carried a dry edge, almost bitter, like the aftertaste of wine left too long in the glass.
"Understandable," I murmured. These social circus acts were exhausting. Every smile had to be rehearsed, every word weighed. And from the way a few perfectly manicured women were sizing me up like I was an out-of-season handbag, I could already hear the unspoken commentary.
Why her? Why a widow? Why not some bright-eyed, blank-slate virgin he could mold like wet clay?
I glanced at Grayson, trying to read the ice and iron in his gaze. I wanted to believe he'd picked me for more than strategy. But wanting didn't make it true.
We stopped at the buffet, and I made a beeline for the panettone, slicing into it like it was sacred. The soft, golden
bread melted on my tongue—sweet, warm, and undeniably worth every calorie. I'd tried baking it once. Disaster. Diane DeTrolio was the undisputed queen of desserts, and she damn well knew it.
"Grayson," came a soft voice behind us.
We turned in unison.
Adriana—no, Savannah. Charming, polished, very pregnant.
"Adriana," I said with a smile. "You look radiant."
She ran a hand over her rounded stomach with practiced grace. She had Grayson's pale gold hair and the same
controlled elegance, but her eyes, when they met mine, held a warmth I hadn't expected. Not affection exactly—but something open. Honest.
"Savannah. It's good to see you," she said.
"I mean it—you look amazing. That dress is gorgeous."
"Thanks," she replied, smoothing the fabric over her bump again. "It's been hell finding something that doesn't make
me look like a literal house. Maybe you can help me find one for your wedding?"
My eyes lit up, genuinely excited. "Only if you'll come with me when I go dress shopping."
Her brows lifted, surprised. "You don't have a dress yet?"
I shook my head. "Not yet. I'm planning to look next week. You free?"
"Count me in," she said without hesitation.
Just like that, something in her posture loosened. She looked younger than I remembered—lighter, maybe even
glowing. If I could look half that good while pregnant, I'd start browsing baby names tomorrow.
From the corner of my eye, I felt Grayson's gaze land on us, steady and unreadable.
"You two seem to be getting along," he said finally.
"Imagine that," I replied sweetly. "Two women having a civil conversation without drawing blood."
"Where's your husband?" he asked Adriana.
"Oh, Marcus is outside smoking with James DeTrolio. They didn't want to interrupt your… bonding."
Something shifted in Grayson's expression—so subtle it would've been easy to miss. His jaw clenched, ever so slightly. His eyes darted toward the window, where the faint orange glow of cigarette tips flickered against the dark like dying stars.