Page 13 of This Beautiful Lie
Beside me, Dean went still. His hand, warm against my back, had lost its easy confidence—his fingers pressing gently, as if he needed the contact to steady himself. Around us, the crowd began to whisper again, but it was all distant noise.
I turned slightly, trying to see his face, but he wasn’t looking at anyone. Just the stage. His expression unreadable—calm, almost—but there was something beneath it. Something quiet and breaking.
“Excuse me,” he murmured finally, his breath brushing the edge of my ear. His voice soft and careful. “I’ll be right back.”
Before I could answer, he slipped away into the crowd, leaving behind only the faint echo of his touch.
Mr. McHenry had just stepped off the stage, shaking hands and smiling politely at the well-wishers gathering around him, but Dean caught up to him easily. I watched as the older man turned, surprised at first—then his entire expression softened.
Dean said something I couldn’t hear, his head bent close, his hand briefly finding the man’s shoulder. Whatever passed between them was quiet, private—but it lingered. Mr. McHenry nodded once, his lips pressing into a faint, trembling smile before he reached up and rested a steadying hand against Dean’s cheek. Dean laughed softly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
The image pulled at something in my chest. There was nothing formal or distant about the way Dean stood with him—it was gentle, familiar, threaded with a kind of respect and care that only came from real history.
And yet… no one else in the room seemed to notice it.
It made me wonder who the man really was to Dean—and what, exactly, I was doing here.
I turned too fast, needing a second to get a grip on myself, and slammed straight into the woman standing behind me. Champagne sloshed between us, cold and wet, soaking the front of her dress. My gasp wasn’t delicate—it was loud and horrified.
“Oh my god—I’m an idiot!” I snatched a napkin from the nearest table and started blotting at her dress.
Then I froze, my brain finally catching up with my hands. “Jesus, I…” I stopped mid-motion, realizing I was groping a stranger. “Sorry, I—God, I’m so sorry.”
I shoved the napkin toward her and took a step back.
She blinked at me—then, to my utter shock, she started to laugh. Genuine, unrestrained laughter, ending with a little snort she didn’t bother to hide. “Don’t worry about it,” she said, taking the napkin to wipe at her chest. “If it wasn’t you, it would’ve been me. That’s why I wear black—hides all sins. And trust me, I’ve got plenty.”
I stood there, still mortified.
“Vivienne Blackwood, right?” she asked, still blotting at the stain with quick, flustered swipes.
The name hit me like a jolt. Not because I didn’t recognize it—but because for a second, I’d forgotten it was supposed to be mine. “Yes,” I managed. “And you are?”
“Trisha,” she said, giving up on the dress with a sigh. “My husband’s Thomas Steward.” She glanced around the room. “He’s around here somewhere—likely by the bar, avoiding conversation.”
The name tickled something in the back of my mind. One of the many Dean had rattled off in the hallway. I offered a shaky smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
She tilted her head, studying me like she was still deciding if I was real. “Honestly, I was beginning to think you didn’t exist.”
My stomach tightened. “Why’s that?” I asked, scanning the crowd for Dean, silently begging him to rescue me.
“I’m happy to find out that’s not true,” she said instead, plucking a fresh glass of champagne from a passing tray.
“Thomas!” she suddenly called, waving her arm. “There you are! Come meet Dean’s fiancée!”
“For fuck’s sake,” the man grumbled as he approached, his tie slightly askew, his smile a little too loose. “I thought Dean made you up.”
Before I could react, he swept me into a tipsy hug that lifted me clean off my feet.
I let out a startled laugh, though it sounded nothing like me. Of course, Dean made me up—that was the entire point. But the way they said it, the disbelief in their tone, made it sound like an inside joke I didn’t understand.
“No offense,” Thomas added as he set me down, steadying me with a grin. “It’s just—Dean Weston? The man’s practically married to his work. We all figured the only woman he’d ever commit to was a contract.”
“Oh?” I blinked, caught between confusion and panic. Were we talking about the same Dean? The one who spoke of stolen kisses in bookstores, who’d memorized how I took my coffee, who’d made me believe—if only for a moment—that maybe, it wasn’t all pretend?
My mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Before I could piece together a response that didn’t sound completely fabricated, Dean was suddenly behind me.
