At 6:57 p.m., I was standing in front of my mirror, turning sideways and second-guessing everything I owned.
The dress I'd pulled from the back of my closet was simple — black, knee-length, fitted enough to feel like I'd tried without screaming look at me. But my hands kept smoothing it like maybe, if I kept touching it, I'd stop feeling like an imposter.
I'd straightened my hair twice. Put on makeup three times. And still, my reflection looked like someone playing dress-up.
At 7:00 sharp, the doorbell rang.
---
Alex Williams in a tuxedo was… unfair.
He filled the doorway with quiet authority, black bow tie perfectly in place, not a single hair out of order. The kind of man who could walk into a room and bend it toward him without saying a word.
His eyes swept over me once, and for a second, I thought I saw a flicker of approval. But his voice was all business.
"You're late."
I blinked. "It's exactly seven."
"That means you should've been ready at six fifty-five."
The nerve of this man. "Noted," I said tightly.
He didn't smile. Just extended his arm. "Shall we?"
---
His car was sleek, black, and smelled faintly of leather and cedar. I sank into the seat, feeling suddenly very aware of the way my knees brushed together, the way my hands twisted in my lap.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"To meet my grandfather," he said, eyes on the road.
My stomach dipped. "Tonight?"
"Yes. Why, were you expecting more rehearsal time?"
"I don't know… a little heads-up might've been nice."
He glanced at me briefly, and there was something in his expression — not pity, exactly, but a recognition that made me feel exposed.
"You'll do fine," he said. "Just remember: smile when he speaks, don't interrupt him, and if you're unsure, look at me."
"Like I'm waiting for your approval?"
"Exactly."
My jaw tightened. "Got it."
---
We pulled up to a private club with marble steps and gold-trimmed doors. The kind of place where even the air feels expensive. A doorman in a crisp uniform opened my door, and I stepped out, blinking against the warm light spilling from inside.
Alex offered his hand — not to help, but to claim. His fingers were warm, steady.
Inside, the room was a wash of crystal chandeliers and murmured conversation. Waiters glided between tables carrying champagne, their movements so precise it was almost hypnotic.
People looked at Alex the way moths look at light — drawn in without thought. And now, they looked at me, too. Assessing. Weighing.
I pasted on a smile that felt paper-thin.
"Alex."
The voice came from a table near the back. An older man with silver hair and sharp blue eyes sat in a wheelchair, a blanket over his lap. His presence was as commanding as Alex's, only warmer — the kind of man who could make you feel welcome or ruined in a single sentence.
"Grandfather," Alex said, leading me forward. "This is Sarah. My girlfriend."
My chest tightened at the word.
The older man's gaze shifted to me. "So you're the one who's stolen my grandson's time away from business."
I laughed lightly. "Guilty, I guess."
His eyes crinkled. "Good. He works too much. Sit, sit."
---
Dinner was a blur of polite questions, careful answers, and Alex's hand occasionally brushing mine under the table — little cues to remind me when to laugh, when to shift the topic, when to let silence sit.
At one point, his grandfather leaned in and whispered, "He's different with you, you know. Softer. I like that."
My stomach knotted.
Across the table, Alex was watching me with that unreadable gaze, as if he'd heard every word.
When the evening ended and we stepped back into the cool night, I exhaled like I'd been holding my breath for hours.
"That wasn't so bad," I said.
Alex opened my door, his voice low. "Don't get comfortable. Tonight was the easy part."
I slid into the seat, only for him to add, "Tomorrow, we're going public. Cameras. Reporters. And that's when the real act begins."