Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 30269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 151(@200wpm)___ 121(@250wpm)___ 101(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 151(@200wpm)___ 121(@250wpm)___ 101(@300wpm)
“You do. It’s just not what you want to hear.” He steps into me, one palm on my cheek. “Do we have a deal?”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “We have a deal.”
11
Oliver might as well have locked me in iron shackles. Before I left the penthouse, he had me sign a contract, ensuring I’ll honor his terms after the auction and wedding.
That was a week ago, and since then the days have settled into a predictable rhythm.
Mornings with my instructor, accompanied by the hum of machinery and the bite of pins. Afternoons belong to Hugo and the foundation. It’s easy, this collaboration, because he treats me like a colleague and not a conquest.
And he calls me my queen without a trace of irony. Aside from my brother, it’s the most platonic relationship I’ve had with a man in this tower. After the debacle at the penthouse, the camaraderie between us wraps around me like my favorite chenille blanket.
Tonight, he’s invited me to spend the evening in his office—the only room in the House of Aquarius that feels lived in. Drawings and handwritten thank-yous from the children he’s helped hang in threes along one wall, and gigantic canvases of the foundation’s milestones dominate the space above the fireplace.
Hugo sits behind the mahogany desk, fingers moving over the keyboard, firelight catching on his glasses and softening the lines of his midnight suit. He hasn’t touched the trio of silver pens beside his leather-bound agenda. They’re arranged in a neat row, perpendicular to the corner of the desk.
Across the room, I’ve claimed his reading nook. As I take a sip of red wine, I experiment with the beadwork on the foundation gown. A careful stroke here, a subtle embellishment there…until I catch myself staring out the window again.
The gardens lie asleep for the winter under fresh snow, but beyond the hedges, the gazebo’s white pillars call to me.
You’re mine.
Sebastian’s vow, spoken at the start of his month—when an empty library and a note led me to the gazebo to find him waiting—paints my memories in hues of hope.
I set aside the foundation design and hunt in my book bag for the bridal sketchbook I keep hidden, digging past charcoal pencils and a dragon-shifter romance Elise recommended. Finding it near the bottom, I pull it free.
Only one person has ever slipped past my guard.
Hugo got a peek when I first showed him my studio, but it wasn’t an intentional trespass on his part. Somehow, without me saying a word, he knows not to pry again.
I flip through the pages until I find the wedding gown I started that night, after he left me to my work, and trace the lines with my thumb.
The clatter of his keyboard stops. “Speaking of your work.”
I snap the sketchbook shut, but Hugo’s focus is on his laptop.
“People can’t stop talking about you online.” He taps a key and turns the screen toward me. A trade headline fills the upper half.
Van Buren on the Rise: Fashion’s Name to Watch.
“The whole industry wants to know what you’ll do next.”
I blink in awe. The industry kept talking about me, praising my work, all while I was locked in a hellish loop of grief, oblivious to the world beyond it.
They were still paying attention.
My designs mattered to them.
Gratitude clogs my throat. Before I can express it, Hugo goes on.
“I should have mentioned this sooner, but the foundation hosts a ball every year to fund the season ahead.” Pride animates him, his formal reserve slipping. “It’s in a couple of weeks or so, on my birthday…which happens to be the same day as yours.”
“We share a birthday?”
“Yes.”
First Oliver, and now Hugo. What is it with these men not telling me simple things, like when their birthday is?
As if that detail’s not worth pausing for, he gestures toward the canvases. “Anyway, it’ll be an important evening. International patrons, press, a curated showing of the donated art.” His attention drifts to the window. “I’d be honored if you’d attend as one of our featured designers. You’ll be able to show your sketches and give them a glimpse before the fundraiser. Let them see what I already know you can do.”
A flush creeps up my neck. Excitement chases away the cautionary voice in my head, because this is something to build toward, something that’s mine. But underneath the anticipation, a current of fear stirs.
Another ball, another crowded room…
Another glass of champagne pressed into my hand.
“I have two conditions,” I say, struggling to keep my voice level.
Hugo tilts his head, waiting.
“No one spikes the champagne.”
“Of course, my queen. And the second condition?”
“The only man I dance with that night is you.”
He goes still, then picks up one of the silver pens and clicks it three times. “Spiked champagne isn’t something I would allow anyway, but the other thing…” And just like that, he’s avoiding my eyes again. “I, uh…I don’t dance.”