Page 11 of Wicked God
I clink mine against his. “That’s either very cynical or very wise.”
“Can’t it be both?”
The champagne is crisp, bubbles sharp on my tongue. Or maybe it’s just Alex, standing too close, his cologne winding around me. When he shifts to avoid the gesticulating man behind him, his shoulder brushes mine. My pulse skips.
“Tell me something real,” he says suddenly.
The request catches me off guard, and I almost laugh at the irony. Here I am, trying to find a husband under false pretenses, and he’s asking for honesty.
“That’s a dangerous request at a function like this.”
“I like danger. Besides, I have a feeling you’re more interesting than anyone else in this room.”
The sincerity in his voice is disarming. When was the last time anyone looked at me like I was worth knowing, not just worth using? Not in the past week, that’s for sure.
“Alright,” I say, surprising myself. “Something real? I hate these events. The pretending, the networking, the way everyone smiles while calculating your value. I hate being the same. I wish I could leave right now and just go home to my cat and a bottle of wine.”
“You have a cat?”
“Her name is Duchess. She’s a Persian with an attitude problem and anyone who disturbs her nap schedule.” I pause, realizing how much fun I’m having. “Now is your turn. Tell me something real.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, swirling the champagne in his glass as he considers. But then he meets my eyes directly and says quietly, “My father arranged my marriage. To a woman I’ve never met.”
My champagne glass freezes halfway to my lips.
I should feel relieved. Here’s my perfect excuse to walk away from this man who makes my skin prickle with awareness. Instead, my chest tightens.
I’m disappointed, I realize.I’m disappointed that this interesting, attractive man is already spoken for—even if it’s not by choice.
“An arranged marriage,” I echo, trying to keep my voice neutral even as my mind races. “In this day and age?”
Apparently, it’s still very popular in our circles.
He laughs, bitter. “Family expectations. Political alliances, business mergers—all the usual reasons people in our circles get married.” He drains his glass in one swift motion, his throat working as he swallows. When he looks at me again, his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Love doesn’t factor into the equation.”
“We should both just run away and start over somewhere else,” I joke.
“We should.” His eyes are strangely intense. “Do you want to run away from all of this for one night?”
The question hangs between us. I should say no. I should find Cassandra, work the room, remember that I have sixteen days to save Tiffany from her own arranged marriage, and that running off with a stranger won’t help.
But looking into Alex’s eyes, I see the same desperation I’ve been carrying all week. The weight of expectation. The pressure. The exhaustion of pretending.
“Where would we go?” I hear myself asking, and I’m shocked by how breathless I sound.
Alex’s smile is slow. He offers his hand. “Anywhere but here. My car’s parked outside.”
I should refuse. I should remember why I’m here, the rules I etched into bone: Olivia, the dutiful sister; Olivia, the gallery owner; Olivia, the woman with a plan.
Instead, I stare at his outstretched hand.
The music from the ballroom fades to a distant hum as I stand at this crossroads, champagne trembling in my grip. Alex waits, patient, watching me with those impossible eyes.
“I don’t usually do things like this,” I whisper, though I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince him or myself.
“Neither do I, but there’s something about tonight. About you.”
“What about your fiancée?”
