Page 26 of The Temporary Bride

In the lobby of my apartment building, I twist the engagement ring nervously on my finger. I’ve been wearing it for the past few days, ever since the incident outside of Tristan’s office.

A shiver runs through me as I remember the dangerous look in his eye, the bite to his tone. He was so… possessive. He ran that other man—I can’t even remember his name anymore—off like he was a scared deer.

And… well, I told him I’d wear the ring once the engagement was announced. I hadn’t expected him to announce it right then and there, but I wasn’t about to go back on my word.

The diamond glitters in the calm lights of the lobby, catching my eye even when I’d rather not look at it. It’s a reminder of the strange situation we’re in, but it’s undeniably beautiful.

I glance at the glass front doors, hoping to see my driver pulling up. No such luck. The streets are slicked with a rare Los Angeles rain, and traffic is backed up to the corner. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s stuck in the gridlock somewhere.

Tonight, I’m supposed to attend an event hosted by both of our families. Our engagement party, where we will officially announce our union. It’s a bit of a moot point now. Tristan’s social media posts got the rumor mill buzzing more effectively than any formal event. Most of our social circle already knows we’re getting married.

It’s a big deal too. Two wealthy and powerful families. One of the most eligible bachelors in Los Angeles, probably on the entire West Coast. Now that he’s off the market, the gossip is flowing fast.

Outside, a sleek black SUV pulls into the driveway. I get to my feet, nodding my thanks to the doorman as he holds the front doors open for me. My driver, Clint, hurries around to the other side of the car to meet me at the awning with an umbrella, then escorts me to the back seat of the car.

The venue is across town. I spend the half-hour drive with a pre-emptive glass of Prosecco in the back of the car. The SUV has a well-stocked mini fridge, and, well, this is a celebration, isn’t it? Might as well get the champagne flowing now, while I don’t have to rub shoulders with the Thornes.

When Clint pulls up to the front entrance of the venue, a well-known hotel on the north side of the city, I down the remainder of the Prosecco. I let myself out of the car before he can reach my door.

“Thanks,” I mutter to him out of the corner of my mouth. “Be on standby to pick me up if this goes south, okay?”

Clint coughs lightly to cover up a laugh. “Of course, Ms. Dawson. I’m sure it will go well.”

I huff out a breath. “I’m not. But your confidence is reassuring.”

The lobby of the hotel is grand, adorned with oil paintings that almost reach the full length of the wall. The floors beneath my feet are marble, gleaming in the light of half a dozen crystal chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling. Behind the reception desk, rich, dark wood panels and gold accents add warmth to the space.

Across the space, I see my father leaning over the reception desk, speaking to the concierge. He turns and spots me, breaking into a smile that never quite reaches his eyes.

I head toward him. He lifts a hand to gesture to my mother, who’s sitting over by a fireplace in the corner of the lobby. She rushes over to us as well.

“Are you ready, darling?” my father asks almost absent-mindedly.

I nod. “Sure.”

“Oh, you look gorgeous,” my mother exclaims, laying a hand on my arm and squeezing. “I love this dress. Where did you get it?”

“It’s from a New York designer, Alice Frond,” I tell her. No amount of perfectly-tailored chiffon could help me move past the grim reality of this situation, but I refrain from saying that. I doubt my mother even knows how I feel about this whole affair. I’d like to think that, if she did know, she wouldn’t be so cavalier with those feelings.

“Chloe, I’m glad I caught you before we go in there,” my father says, his tone businesslike as always. “There are a few things I wanted to talk to you about ahead of time.”

I offer him a brisk nod, my jaw clenched.

“A few of the guests tonight are high-profile potential clients. In particular, I want you to find Adam Armstrong. Do your best to network. Alright?”

Inwardly, I sigh. My father is always in business mode. He never seems able to shut it off, even for something as personal as an engagement party. But he’s right. Adam Armstrong, the CEO of up-and-coming streaming service Instabox, is an important target. MediaSphere has been courting his business for a while. I’d be a fool not to seize this opportunity.

Still, the suggestion doesn’t sit well in my already-churning stomach.

“Chloe!”

I turn toward the sound of the new voice, grateful to have a distraction from my father’s pep talk.

It’s my sister. Genevieve runs through the lobby toward us, her heels clicking on the marble. She’s normally an inch shorter than me, but in her stilettos, she’s managed to even up the height disparity. Her light brown hair billows out around her in salon-designed waves.

“Hey,” I say, waving. “Ready to go in?”

“I need to clear something up at the desk first,” my father says. “I’ll see all of you in there.”