Page 26 of Not His Bride

By eleven, I’ve checked work emails, replied to three new consulting inquiries, and finished a call with a supplier in Tokyo. I’m busy all the way until a message from Gallagher comes through at 11:10 sharp.

When I met Gallagher at the café, he asked for a chance to show me who he is. I said sure, then pretended I wasn’t curious about what exactly the billionaire had planned.

Will meet you in front of your building at 2 p.m. Dress code is usually business casual to semi-formal, but wear whatever you want. Looking forward to it.

I close the message. Then I open it again. Which is irritating.

Gallagher Cortez still has the ability to make me care about a short text more than any grown woman should. Apparently, humiliation and annulment papers haven’t completely killed the crush I had on him before all of this.

I wish they had. It would make today a lot easier.

Some stupid part of me is already wondering what he’ll think when he sees me. I shut that down.

There’s a low hum in my chest that refuses to settle as the afternoon ticks forward. I go through the motions—laptop, tea, sorting through the latest batch of invoices for Velvet Masquerade, and because his contract with my family has been terminated, I email Maison Ziterweigen, but nothing sticks. My focus is shot.

If Gallagher wanted to impress me, there are a hundred ways he could do it. Expensive dinners, spa buyouts, exclusive gallery viewings. I’ve seen his kind of money up close. I’m guessing he’s going to take me to dinner. But that wouldn’t explain why he waited to take me out. Unless his entire point was to give me more space.

I check my lipstick one last time. Then get annoyed with myself.

If this turns out to be nothing but money, I’ll know. I’ll thank him for the gesture, then make it perfectly clear that even if he had rented out Manhattan for some type of tabloid press, the answer is still no.

At 1:57, I’m downstairs in the lobby where a black car sits at the curb.

Expecting cameras, I brace myself. But there aren’t any. Only Gallagher is here, standing outside the driver’s door.

He wears a perfect suit, dark gray, with a shirt that’s the type of blue you’d find in an overcast sky. He sees me and straightens, but he doesn’t move closer until I do.

“Hi, Lilith.”

“Hi. No driver today?” I’ve never seen him drive before. He always uses a driver.

“More privacy this way.” He motions for the door but doesn’t try to take my arm. I slide in ahead of him.

I settle into the passenger seat; the leather seats are heated, which is thoughtful. The button to heat them is lit up, which means Gallagher had to consciously warm them up for me.

We head uptown. Windows filter the city into soft shapes and streams of moving color.

At one point, he asks, “Are you comfortable?”

The answer should be yes, but I hedge. “I’m fine. Curious, but fine.”

That gets the smallest flash of a smile. “Good. I really think you’ll enjoy our day.”

“So, you’re still not going to tell me?”

“I don’t want to ruin the surprise. You look gorgeous, by the way.”

I’m wearing black fleece leggings, a plain, tight fitted henley with an open maroon cardigan over it, a simple gold necklace with a raven charm combined with my usual black choker.

I appreciate it being a day trip. Evenings include expectations, like kisses on doorsteps, and I’m not into that.

We drive for fifteen minutes in what is technically silence, except my head is as loud as ever. Every block, I tick off the restaurants, hotels, and venues I’ve heard about. Nothing matches the turn we make on the Upper West Side.

Gallagher takes a side street and comes to a gentle stop.

He gets out first and circles to the front before opening my door.

Of all the things I expected from today, having a billionaire open my car door wasn’t one of them. I step out, boots first. The black of my outfit sets off the maroon cardigan. Under the cloudy sky, the color is richer, almost Phantom-appropriate, though I don’t let myself dwell on it.