Page 37 of Devotion
Christopher was at the bottom of the stairs when I came down. Black suit. Perfect fit. His hair was styled in that deliberate, careless way that took effort to look effortless, and his cufflinks caught the light when he moved. He looked up when he heard my heels on the stairs.
His expression did something quick. A flash of something I couldn’t name before his face settled back into its default composure.
“Ready?” he asked, smiling.
“No. Not really.”
“Good. Neither am I.”
We drove to the venue in silence. My hands were in my lap, fingers twisting the fabric of the dress. His hands were still. I envied that. I envied the way he could sit in a car heading toward three hundred strangers who were about to watch him lie abouthis life and look like he was going to a dentist appointment. Mildly inconvenient. Entirely manageable.
The ballroom was enormous. Crystal chandeliers threw fractured light across marble floors, and in one corner a live quartet wove Vivaldi through the murmur of conversation. Champagne flutes circulated on silver trays carried by waitstaff who moved with practiced invisibility. The women wore gowns and diamonds; the men wore suits and confidence. Everyone smelled expensive.
I had never been in a room like this. I’d cooked for rooms like this. I’d plated food that was served in rooms like this. But standing in one, dressed like I belonged, with Christopher Vale’s hand on the small of my back? That was a different experience entirely. It was the experience of pretending to be someone you’re not in front of people who could tell the difference.
I stayed close to Christopher’s side, smiled, and shook hands. Answered questions about myself with the warm vagueness of someone who was internally counting ceiling tiles to keep from screaming. A woman in a silver dress asked what I did. I said I was a chef. She said how lovely and immediately turned to talk to someone more important.
Two women near the bar caught my eye. They were watching me with sharp interest, two women who’d formed an opinion and were enjoying it. One leaned toward the other and said something behind her champagne glass. I couldn’t hear the words but I could read the body language—the eyebrow raise, the smirk, the dismissive glance that traveled from my dress to my shoes to my face and found all three wanting.
I caught a fragment as I passed. “…another one. Give it a month.”
The other woman laughed. “A week. He cycles through them faster than his cars.”
I kept walking. My cheeks burned. Christopher’s hand was still on my back, steady and warm, and he either didn’t hear them or didn’t care.
Halfway through the evening, Christopher’s phone buzzed. He checked it. His expression went taut.
He looked across the room at Trisha. She was standing near the bar with a glass of sparkling water, looking exactly like a woman who’d been waiting for a signal. Their eyes met. Trisha gave a nod so small that if you weren’t watching for it, you’d miss it entirely.
Christopher turned to me. “I need you to trust me.”
“What?”
“For the next five minutes, I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”
“That depends on what happens in the next five minutes.”
He took my hand. His fingers closed around mine and he led me through the crowd, past the bar, past the quartet, toward the small stage at the front of the ballroom. People parted. A few turned to watch. The woman in silver nudged her friend.
Christopher leaned close. His mouth near my ear, his breath warm against my skin. My pulse hammered so hard I could feel it in my fingertips.
“Just go with it,” he whispered.
He stepped onto the stage.
He picked up the microphone. The quartet stopped playing. Three hundred faces turned toward him, and the room went so quiet I could hear the champagne bubbles.
“Thank you all for being here tonight,” he said. His voice was smooth and warm, his delivery polished from addressing crowds his entire career. The man was a natural. “This foundation does incredible work, and your generosity makes it possible.”
He paused. His gaze swept the crowd, then settled on me.
“I have a personal announcement.”
Three hundred people went still.
“Most of you know me as an actor. Some of you know me as the new interim CEO of Vale Industries. But tonight, I want you to know me as something else.” He extended his hand toward me. “Miley, would you come up here?”
Three hundred people were watching me. Three hundred. I could feel every single pair of eyes. My legs moved of their own accord, carrying me forward as I took his hand. He helped me onto the stage, where I stood in my gold dress under the chandelier light, trying to remember how to breathe.
