Wear something that would make the whole room keep their eyes on you.
That was the entirety of Zane’s instruction, delivered over coffee three days before the Whitfield Foundation gala.
And even though I hated to admit it, I had spent considerably more time than I wanted to deciding what that meant.
Because deep down his validation mattered to me and I found myself wanting to impress him now.
It was crazy.
“What do you think?” I asked him as I tried dress after dress before I finally settled on a deep navy blue dress that cinched my waist perfectly and showed off my shoulders.
“Yes, This is the one” he said wide-mouthed as he stared at me a little too much.
The dress was structured at the bodice, fluid below.
It was just like he instructed – a dress that caught the room and worked it to my advantage.
Before that, I’d tried on six others.
I knew immediately when I put it on that the search was over and this was the dress I was going to wear.
I couldn’t help but notice how he stared at me as I did the mini fashion parade.
I knew that he definitely found me attractive at the least which made me smirk a little too happily.
We were treading on dangerous territory.
But for now, I didn’t care.
I came down the stairs at six-forty.
Zane was waiting in the foyer, adjusting his cufflinks, when he noticed my presence and looked up as he heard me on the stairs.
His jaw dropped as he stopped adjusting his cufflinks entirely and stood still, staring at me with so much emotion in his eyes that he didn’t have to speak.
“What?” I asked him, smiling.
He didn’t say anything.
He just looked.
His eyes moved once, slowly.
That was look not subtle in any way.
I reached the bottom of the stairs and he still hadn’t spoken.
“Is it the dress or are you just having a moment?” I asked again, trying to hold in my laughter.
It felt good to have a man dumbstruck because of how I looked.
“Both,” he finally said.
I smiled before I could stop myself, and then I caught myself smiling too hard and tried to neutralize it into something more professional.
I didn’t entirely succeed because somehow, the foyer felt very warm for a room with central air conditioning.
It was no secret Zane attractive.
I’d known it for weeks, since Portugal, the beach, and especially the dance where his heart had given him away under my palm.
But there was something different about being looked at like this, in my own house, before an event, getting the validation I wanted from him.
I let myself enjoy it just enough to get to the car.
Then I told myself to stop being pleased about it.
This isn’t real Sloane.
I seemed to always forget.
It was a show.
We were actors.
The most we could be was friends.
The Whitfield Foundation gala was the kind of event Seattle’s old money attended to alleviate boredom because they have nothing else to do and was just one of the things they threw money at.
There was a row of crystal chandeliers, a string quartet, a guest list that included three senators, half the city’s hospital board, and enough industry wealth to fund a small country.
We arrived at the peak period to be unintentionally fashionably late and drew attention to ourselves.
We moved through it well.
Zane’s hand found my waist with ease like he had done it a hundred times, which he had, by now, and I leaned into conversations with warmth that the cameras loved, and somewhere in the first hour I stopped thinking about the cameras at all and simply existed in the room with him.
People complimented us extensively.
“You two are simply magnetic,” said a woman I vaguely recognized from a hospital board.
“I’ve never seen a couple with such obvious chemistry.” “The way he looks at you,” said another, leaning in like she was sharing a secret.
“It’s rare.
You can tell when it’s real.” I smiled and thanked them and felt something warm settle in my chest that I tried not to examine, and Zane’s hand tightened slightly at my waist.
As the evening continued, someone asked about children.
It came from an older woman near the dessert table, kind-faced, well-meaning.
I pictured her questioning newlyweds without thinking about the weight of it.
That made me uncomfortable.
“And when can we expect to hear baby news?
You two would make beautiful children.” I smiled.
I think I smiled.
I tried to.
“We’re enjoying being married first,” I said.
My voice sounded normal, so I thought I’d managed it properly.
But the question had opened something.
Another guest joined in, laughing, asking when we were planning the nursery, whether we wanted a big family, whether Zane wanted a son to carry on the Della-Ross name, and the questions kept coming in overlapping waves, well-intentioned and completely oblivious to what they were doing, and somewhere in the third or fourth question my chest started to tighten.
I tried to breathe normally.
I couldn’t quite manage it.
The room, which had felt spacious a moment ago, suddenly felt smaller.
The chandeliers were too bright, the string quartet, which had been pleasant background noise, became a wall of sound pressing against my skull.
Someone laughed nearby, sharp and loud, and it landed in my chest like something physical.
Family.
Children.
A real marriage.
The words kept circling, each one landing somewhere I didn’t want them to, tied to a mother who left before I understood why, a father who built an empire instead of a family and a stepmother who made sure I knew exactly how replaceable I was, a fourteen-year relationship that had been built on the expectation of a future like this but had cut short by the stupid decision of cheating.
I didn’t have an answer for any of it.
My hands were cold and my breathing had gone shallow and fast, breathing that didn’t bring in enough air no matter how many times I tried, while the room kept tilting, and I was vaguely aware that I was still standing, smiling and performing for this room, even as everything underneath this theatric was collapsing.
I need to leave, I thought but I couldn’t figure out how.
“Sloane?” Zane’s voice came in closer than it should have been given how far away everything else suddenly felt.
I looked at him not knowing what my face was doing, but whatever it was, it made his expression change instantly.
The easy social warmth dropped away and was replaced by concern followed by action.
He didn’t ask what was wrong and neither did he say anything else.
He took my hand, his fingers closing around mine, firm and certain, and turned us both away from the cluster of well-meaning guests with smooth efficiency, redirecting us towards an exit.
He moved quickly, pulling me gently and insistently through the crowd toward the ballroom doors.
I followed because I had no other option.
The only solid thing in the entire spinning room was his hand around mine.
He didn’t look back at the room or slowed down.
He just kept walking, my hand in his, pulling me toward whatever was on the other side of those doors, away from the noise and questions and the version of a future I had never let myself imagine.
I followed him blindly and gratefully into whatever came next.