Page 109 of Marrying My Ex's Brother
Then she sees my tie, and her expression changes. “You look terrible,” she says.
“Impossible.”
“Your tie is crooked.” She reaches for it without thinking.
I hold still while she fixes it. Her fingers are quick, precise, still a little shaky. There is something strangely intimate about it, more than the kiss somehow. Her smoothing my tie after I had my mouth on her. Her trying to make us both look untouched before we step into a room built to judge.
When she finishes, she looks up at me.
For a moment, the car is silent.
Then I take her glove and slide it back onto her hand.
“Ready?” I ask.
“No.”
“Good.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“It was not meant to be.”
Viktor opens the door.
Cold air cuts into the car. Noise follows. Voices. Cameras. The dull rise of a crowd outside the old Imperial Exchange building.
I step out first.
The venue stands at the end of a wide stone plaza, lit from below so every column looks taller than it is. The building is old money pretending to serve charity. White stone, arched windows, banners hanging from the entrance, black cars lined along the curb. Men in tuxedos and women in gowns move slowly up the steps beneath chandeliers visible through the glass. Security is everywhere.
I turn and offer Anya my hand. She takes it.
When she steps out, the plaza changes. Every person outside or lingering in the foyer turns to look at us.
Good. Let them look.
Anya feels it. Her fingers tighten around mine. Then her chin lifts, and she moves beside me as if the whole building has been waiting for her. Pride moves through me before I can stop it.
I place my hand at her lower back as we climb the steps. At first, it’s proper. Expected. A husband guiding his wife.
Then we reach the top, and my hand drops lower. Not by accident. My palm settles over the curve of her ass, firm through the silk.
She turns her head slightly, eyes flashing. “Yaromir.”
“Yes?”
“People are watching.”
“I know.”
Her face burns, but she doesn’t move away. That satisfies me more than it should.
Inside, the hall is all marble and gold light. The old exchange floor has been transformed for the auction. Round tables surround a central platform where the items will be displayed. Tall arrangements of white flowers stand between columns. A string quartet plays near the staircase, soft enough that no one has to listen. Waiters move with champagne trays. On the walls, framed paintings and jewelry cases sit under careful lighting, guarded by men who move through the floor observing everything.
Everywhere I look, people notice us.
Some pretend not to.
