Page 135 of Dial F for Finance

“It better,” I say, and thumb away a shimmer of wetness at the corner of her eye. “That’s my whole plan.”

I watch her recalibrate in real time, pulling herself upright and recentering like someone who refuses to be misplaced, even by kindness. She smooths her dress, squares her shoulders, and I can see her ready to go back out there and own every last motherfucker in the Azure Room.

Except the quartet has gone quiet, and a muted tide of voices surges in its wake. The main ballroom doors have opened, and the first notes of the big band—strings, then a piano, then some brass—spill in from the main hall. The gala is shifting gears.

I lace my fingers through hers, feeling the steady thrum of her pulse against my palm. “Come on,” I murmur, stepping back just enough to admire the way the midnight silk drapes over her curves. “Let’s go show you off on the dance floor. Let this room see exactly who they’re lucky enough to host tonight.”

Jenna arches a brow, the sharp, brilliant version of my wife fully restored. “You just want an excuse to put your hands on me in public.”

“I never need an excuse for that, Pemberton,” I say, bringing her knuckles to my lips. “But I will absolutely take the opportunity.”

I guide her out of the quiet alcove and into the grand ballroom. The space is a sprawling sea of tailored tuxedos and designer gowns, but the moment I pull her against my chest and we catch the rhythm of a slow, sweeping jazz number, the rest of the world falls away. My hand settles firmly on her lower back, fingertips finding the bare, warm skin where the silk dips low. She exhales softly, rests her free hand on my shoulder, and steps into my space. It just feels fucking right.

Thursday. The deadline Logan unknowingly woke me up to ticks relentlessly in the back of my mind. I pull her a fraction closer, breathing in her expensive perfume. I’m not just showing her off to the room tonight. I’m proving to her that this—us—is exactly where she belongs. Permanently.

“Your hand is very low,” she murmurs after a while.

I smile. “My hand is exactly where the dress code permits.”

“The dress code permits black tie. It does not specify strategic fondling.”

“It’s a gala, not a monastery.” I guide her through a turn, and the silk catches the light, midnight breaking open over her hips. “Besides, if the city didn’t want me touching you, it shouldn’t have invited you in a dress designed by a benevolent pervert.”

Her laugh hits me directly in the sternum.

It bubbles up sudden and low, and makes her eyes go bright.

“Benevolent pervert,” she repeats, shaking her head. “I’m writing that into the post-event feedback survey.”

“Please do. Willa loves specificity.”

“I’m sure she does.” Jenna’s fingers shift on my shoulder, a tiny flex that feels intimate as hell in a room full of people pretending not to watch us. “Question one: did the evening meet expectations? Answer: yes, although my husband used the philanthropic dance floor to conduct unauthorized textile exploration.”

“Your husband sounds handsome and misunderstood.”

“You’re handsome and overfunded.”

“That’s basically the same thing in Chicago.”

She laughs again, softer this time, and I feel something unclench in my ribs. A minute ago she was all fight and arson; now she’s just here, in my arms, letting me lead. If time with her was up for auction tonight, I would spend a year’s salary to keep her right here on this floor, surrounded by the blue-glass glow and the faint sound of people envying us.

We waltz through two songs, and then she slides the hand from my shoulder up into my hair, fingernails dragging gently along my scalp like she’s trying to make sure I’m paying attention.

“I can’t believe I almost didn’t let myself have this.”

“Tonight?”

She shakes her head. “Us.”

“It would have been a catastrophic error in judgment,” I say, and she hums.

“Would you have let me walk?”

“Never.” I spin us a little, slow, carving out a radius that belongs only to us, and the motion makes her smile, even if she tries to hide it in my lapel. “You could have locked yourself in a vault, and I’d have personally bought the bank.”

She tilts her head back, her eyes so clear they punch right through me. “That is not a healthy attachment style, Cruz.”

“I’ll never pass a psych eval. You’re the only reason I have a soul.” I grin, but she doesn’t smile back, and for a half-beat my heart stutters, disorientation setting in until I realize it’s because she’s looking at me like I’m the only man she’s ever seen.