Faye’s eyes widen, and she stares up at me with something that looks an awful lot like interest. I never realized my own fiancée has never looked at me the way other women do. This is a first.
“Dance with me,” I murmur, before pulling her against me. Her arms instantly wrap around my neck, as they always do, but this time, that’s not enough for me. I pull her closer, my palms roaming over her lower back possessively, and she gasps, her eyes finding mine.
What I see in them takes my fucking breath away. There’s something akin to desire dancing in her beautiful blue irises, and for the life of me, I can’t look away. I pull her closer still, until her body is flush against mine, and she tilts her head, sending me a questioning look. “You look utterly captivating tonight, Faye,” I say without thinking.
Her eyes widen a fraction, and then she smiles. Fuck me. I pause in the middle of our dance, losing my train of thought, my mind overwhelmed with the vision she’s presenting me with. “Dion?” she asks, her voice soft.
“I think that might be the first time I’ve ever seen you smile, you know? A real smile, not the ones you usually wear in my presence.”
Her cheeks rapidly turn rosy, and all it does is make her more enticing. I stare at her, savoring this new version of her. So this is what she looks like the moment her perfect mask cracks. Enchanting. “What can I say to make you do that again?”
She laughs then, and I’m not sure what surprises me most, the way she becomes even more beautiful than she was before, or the way the sound warms my icy heart. “You want to… make me smile?”
We resume our dance, and I find myself smiling back at her. This evening just took an entirely unexpected turn. “Well, that’s what I meant, yes, but you’ve just given me a better challenge. I think I might need to hear you laugh for me again. In fact, I dare say that my enjoyment of this evening greatly depends on it.”
She laughs again, and her head falls back a little. Fucking gorgeous, and so unlike the woman I thought she was. There’s nothing doll-like about her in this moment. No, she’s very real, and she’s mine.
The song ends, but instead of leading her off the dance floor, I keep her pressed against me, not ready to let her go just yet. I’m not supposed to enjoy her, I don’t deserve to, but fuck, I don’t think I can walk away. Not right now. Not when she’s looking at me like she doesn’t despise every fiber of my being.
“Another dance?” she asks, her tone conveying her intrigue. “You don’t have an escape plan ready tonight?”
My lips twitch, and I just about manage to hide my surprise. I didn’t think she’d call me out on my past behavior, and I’m pleasantly surprised that she did. “No,” I admit. “I’m all out of excuses, and we’re both out of time. Before the year is over, you’ll be my wife. There’s no avoiding this, not anymore.”
Her smile melts away then, and she averts her gaze. “I know,” she murmurs, and her less-than-eager tone brings an ache to my chest. Perhaps she truly has enchanted me tonight, because I find myself wanting things I swore I’d never even dream of. Things I’ll never deserve.
My hand roams over her lower back, and she melts against me as a slow ballad begins to play. “That question you asked over the phone,” I murmur, my hand slowly making its way up, until the tips of my fingers are pressing into her nape. “What prompted it?”
Some of her relaxedness fades away, and so does that smile of hers. She averts her gaze, and I pull her closer still, until her body is flush against mine, the two of us coming to a standstill on the dance floor. “Answer me.” My tone is rough despite its pleading tilt, a hint of desperation making its way into it.
“Make me a promise?” she murmurs, her beautiful blue eyes filling with equal parts hope and fear, as though she wants to put her faith in me but doesn’t dare to. She’s giving me a chance, but for what, I’m not sure.
“Anything,” I whisper, taking a leap of faith.
Her body relaxes against mine, and she draws a shaky breath. “Promise me you won’t be angry when I give you my answer, and that you won’t punish me for intruding on your privacy. I know that our marriage isn’t real, and I wouldn’t…”
“Tell me,” I demand. “I won’t be mad at you, baby. Just tell me what prompted that question.”
She looks hesitant, but her arms tighten around my neck in a needy way that I absolutely adore. “I asked because of those photos of Maria and you at the beach. The ones that The Herald posted. You told me you were going back to London for work, and then you were photographed half-naked with your secretary on a beach in Spain, and I just wasn’t sure what to think.” Pure helplessness and resignation flashes through her eyes, and she averts her face, hiding herself even though she’s in my arms. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t have asked. It’s clear that… that you didn’t want me to know. I can turn a blind eye, Dion. Of course I can. I’d always expected that I’d have to.”
“Please look at me,” I murmur.
Her entire body is tense as she faces me, and my stomach fucking drops at the sight of her despair. She looks so hopeless, so hurt, and it’s all my fault. Is this the look she wore throughout her teens, each time I was photographed with someone else?
I inhale shakily as I look into her eyes. “Faye, I know this may be hard to believe, but I was there to facilitate a joint acquisition between Sierra and Zane. Sierra is buying the grounds the hotel I was visiting is built on, while Zane is acquiring the hotel itself. I may have been in my swim wear, but it was only because the CEO demanded that we complete our negotiations while spending a day at the beach, having lunch and using all the facilities. I haven’t seen the photos, but I can assure you it isn’t what it looked like. From the moment I told you I was yours, I truly have been. I always will be.”
She looks at me as though she wants to believe me but can’t, and it kills me to know that I’ve caused her pain. It feels like I can never do right by her, no matter how hard I try. It’s like we’re simply ill-fated, and each step I take towards her only ends up harming her. Sierra once told me that making Faye happy could be the absolution I seek, but how?
I know how to provoke her into revealing the parts of herself she keeps hidden, and though the steps have been incremental, we’re closer now than we ever have been before, but it isn’t enough. Keeping her away from Eric isn’t the same as truly making her mine. How do I make the woman in my arms happy when I’m not even sure what real happiness feels like?
Chapter Fourteen
Faye
I watch my phone ring atop my piano, guilt warring with temptation as I reject Eric’s call, my thoughts turning to Dion instead. There was something about the way he flirted with me at the gala that suddenly made our engagement feel real, when it never has before.
Standing on that dance floor with him, his hands on my lower back and my body pressed against his… it made me feel something I’ve never felt before — not even with Eric. I felt safe, and for a few moments, he made me feel wanted. Dancing with him just felt so right.
I’ve never felt so conflicted before. My heart still aches at the thought of Eric, but when I think of Dion, I’m no longer filled with apprehension and fear. When I think of him asking me whether I’ve been good for him, my stomach flutters, and my heart beats a little faster.
When he told me that he’s mine now and he’d start taking our engagement seriously, I thought he was joking. I didn’t think anything between us would change at all, and on the surface, nothing has. So why does everything feel different?
“Faye,” my father calls, and I look up to find him standing in the doorway of our soundproof music room. “Anne Windsor is picking you up in ten minutes. Be ready.”
He sounds frantic, worried, and I jump up instantly. Dion’s grandmother has always put me on edge. She reminds me of a softer, non-violent version of my father. Still a tyrant, but just of a different kind. I haven’t spoken more than a handful of words to her in the last couple of years, and I was hoping to keep it that way until the wedding. I’m terrified I’ll do or say something wrong today, or that she found out what I did and simply wants to confront me in person.
My gaze drops to my outfit, and I take in the white silk blouse with the cream-colored pencil skirt and my matching heels. This should be fine, right? Most of my wardrobe is Windsor Material, as my father likes to call it. Ever since I was twelve, I’ve had a stylist who chooses my clothing. Every few months, a whole new collection of clothes appears with instruction on how to wear them. This season, everything is business casual. I have a feeling my father gets the Windsors to pay for it somehow, but I’ve never dared ask him about it. I suspect a question like that would set him off.