She’s the epitome of beauty, strength, and power. Dangerous power at that, if all the stories about her are to be believed, even though she’s been nothing but kindness itself to me. But, for some reason I notice the wedding band on her ring finger has a dark red rock. The color of passion and blood, and anything but traditional, just like Cora and her intimidating husband themselves.
“Congratulations on everything,” Cora gushes. She’s stunning in a silvery blue sheath that complements her eyes. Her beauty is goddess-like, bright and stunning.
“Congratulations,” her husband, Marcus Ubeli, echoes. He’s the yin to Cora’s yang, dark and handsome. A touch of grey at his temples only adds to his aura of prestige and power. Most of the people hovering around us probably want to talk to him instead of me.
“And where’s your charming fiancé?” Cora asks, pretending to look behind me as if Adam is hiding there.
I wince. By not facing up to Adam sooner, I’m lying to these people. I hide my dismay but the way Cora’s blue eyes rove over my face, I’m fooling no one. “Uh, we arrived separately. I’ve been holed up for a while, working on...a project.” Because that’s what I’m calling sex games with Logan. A project.
“Of course,” Cora’s gaze softens. She’s going to let me off the hook. “You look so young, I forget you’re a brilliant researcher.” She catches my hand and squeezes it. I want to curl up in the warmth of her smile and purr like a cat. “The world needs you. But I hope you’ll take some time off for yourself.”
“Yes,” Marcus hands his wife a flute of champagne. “Time off is important.” He and Cora share a private look. “This building, for example. Did you know there’s a floor dedicated to an art gallery?”
“Um, no. Adam chose it. I didn’t get to explore it that much,” I say.
“You should.” His dark eyes twinkle. “There’s a staircase and a fountain that’s...quite fascinating.”
Cora chokes on her champagne. Marcus puts a hand on her back and excuses them both. There’s a lull while guests wait for the power couple to leave before rushing to greet me.
I staple a smile to my face and murmur thanks over and over. The guests fall into a few categories. There are older men with thinning hair and bespoke suits cut to hide their paunch who represent ninety-nine percent of New Olympus’ net worth. A bevy of plastic looking celebrities whose smiles don’t crease their Botoxed foreheads. Reporters in off-the-rack dress clothes who circle me slowly. I keep my comments vague about where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing. Any dropped hint would be blood in the water.
My throat is dry from fake-laughing and my face is sore from fake-smiling. Why did I ever dream about fitting in with these people? But I did. I saw this script for my life and I wanted to play the part written for me. Not that of the socialite. I was never going to be that.
But a respected CEO and researcher who hobnobs with the rich and influential? It was what my dad did and I assumed it was my path too. A respectable husband along the way was a given, just part of the picture that needed filling out so that my life was screen-ready.
But the truth is, all that takes is a robot. I could’ve stayed asleep my whole life and done exactly what they told me.
Without Logan, I might have let this all happen to me and only twenty years or more down the road had regrets about my hollow life and empty marriage.
A commotion behind me makes me turn.
It’s Adam. My fiancé is surrounded by admirers. His hair is frosted like a singer in a boy band, and his smile is toothpaste-model white.
Did I ever think he was handsome? Or even cute? He’s a plastic Ken doll compared to Logan’s rugged good looks.
“There she is,” Adam bursts out. As if he’s surprised to see me at my own engagement ball. “My beautiful Daphne.”
Inwardly I bristle. Not yours. But I take his hand and let the photographers swarm us. Behind them, I spot a fourth type of guest—flocks of stunning women, camera-ready with poreless skin and skin hugging dresses that leave them more naked than if they were actually naked. They alternate between gazing adoringly at Adam and shooting death glares at me. I barely stop myself from laughing.
Ladies, you can have him.
Adam pulls me too close—I’ve been careful of my nipple piercings so far, but the slightest brush against them is murder—and I suck in a breath and jerk back. “Careful.”
“She’s mad that I’ve been across the ballroom all night,” Adam announces. His voice is louder than the MCs, and he doesn’t even have a mic. Obnoxious much? “It’s all right, sweetheart, I wasn’t ignoring you. Give us a kiss.”
Shit. Slapping him in the face would probably be a little too Real New Olympus Housewives and I didn’t come here to make a scene. I don’t want drama, I just want to end this and part ways cleanly. So I go up on tiptoe and peck him on his spray-tanned cheek. He’s wearing too much cologne and I want to swipe at my face as soon as I pull away to get rid of the overwhelming scent.
“Oooh, playing hard to get,” Adam makes the crowd chuckle. If I barf on him, I could claim food poisoning, right?
Adam has an arm around me, turning me this way and that. Smile for the camera, Daphne. Show us your trophy.
Only this time, I am the trophy.
“I need to talk to you. In private,” I hiss to Adam, keeping a grin plastered to my face as the cameras blaze.
“Of course, darling.” Adam coos, and adds for the crowd’s benefit. “She wants to speak to me...alone.” His voice drips with innuendo. Guests guffaw.
Fuck this. Fuck everyone. I grab Adams sleeve and march ahead of him, through the foyer into a private room. The scent of store-bought roses is cloying.
“Daphne,” Adam murmurs, shutting the door and swaying towards me.
I hold up a hand. “Adam, don’t.”
He chuckles. “It’s all right. It’s only me.” He goes to the sideboard and pours champagne.
I tug off my glove and wriggle my bare fingers. Deep breath. I can do this.
“Let’s toast,” Adam says. “To us.”
“In a minute. I have to speak to you.”
Adam moves closer. When he looks down at my hand, his face goes blank. “Daphne, where’s the ring?”
“I have it.” I start to fumble in my purse like a child called on the carpet. Then I stop. What the hell am I doing, letting him put me on the defensive like this? “Adam, there’s something I have to say first. Then, I’ll give you back the ring.”
His nostrils flare but I forge on. “I’m flattered that you proposed. I’m grateful that you tried to help me save face in front of the press. But I don’t want this.”
A rush of relief and empowerment sweeps through me as I finally say it.
My fingers find the ring and I hand it back to him. “You’ve been an ally of my father’s company and a wonderful support to me and him. A friend. But I don’t want to marry you.”
There. I did it. I square my shoulders.
“Daphne,” Adam murmurs, his voice dripping honey. His hand closes around mine, keeping the ring clenched in my fist. “You can’t be serious.”
My mouth drops open. I just stood tall and told him my truth and he’s—