Page 11 of This Beautiful Lie
“Come on,” he said. “You ready to go back to the party?”
Four
At the entranceto the ballroom, Dean stopped. His sharp gaze swept the room—which was alive with chatter and clinking glasses—as though calculating his next move. I stood by his side, barely breathing, trying to remember every detail he’d told me about Vivienne Blackwood.
I felt small next to him. A rarity at five foot nine, but he was apresence. Made of lean muscle, long legs, and confidence so strong it settled into the room before he did. Like he owned the air and everyone else was just borrowing it.
“Relax,” he whispered in my ear.
“Easy for you to say,” I whispered back. “You’re not the one pretending to be someone you’re not.”
He let out a laugh, one that was quiet and made the corners of his lips curve in a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Aren’t I?”
My brows pinched together, but before I could respond, he was off again, guiding me into the crowd.
Eyes lingered, heads turned, and the weight of the attention pressed around my throat. Dean seemed unaffected, acknowledging each guest with ease. A nod, a smile, a quick hello.
A waiter came toward us with a silver platter filled with flutes of champagne. Dean picked one up without breaking his stride and handed it to me.
“Here,” he murmured. “Drink this.”
I forced a polite smile. “I don’t like champagne,” I whispered from between my teeth.
“Drink it anyway.”
“Why?”
“Because you look like you need it.”
I took a deep breath. He was right.
I downed the whole glass before realizing my hands were shaking. That wasn’t like me.
“They’re going to ask you questions,” Dean said as he guided me across the floor, his hand firm and steady at the small of my back. “Stick to the story. We met in Italy. Fell madly in love.”
He leaned closer, his lips brushing just above the side of my temple as his voice became low enough for only me to hear.
“The only thing they need to know,” he murmured, “is that I’d rather be with you than anyone else in this entire world.”
The words hit harder than I expected. Not playful. Not performative. Just simple and sure. And for a split second, I almost believed him. The way he said it—quiet, certain, like it was the honest truth—made something in my chest twist.
Heat crept up my neck before I could stop it.
Not attraction.
Not lust.
Something quieter.
Something that scared me a little.
“Come on,” he said after a moment, when I still hadn’t found my voice. He gave me a small, knowing smile and nudged me toward the growing crowd near the stage.
An older man stood on top, smiling warmly as people continued to gather in a half circle around him. He was balding,with sun-weathered skin and a jaw that hinted at the strength he carried. His navy suit was classic and perfectly tailored. A gold watch peeked from beneath his cuff, glinting under the light as he raised his hand in greeting.
“Good evening, everyone,” he said as he stepped in front of the mic. His voice smooth and practiced, like someone who’d spent decades knowing exactly how to hold a room. “I’m glad you could make it.”
Conversations dwindled, laughter softened, and everyone slowly turned their attention toward him.
