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“Smart girl,” she says, eyes raking down Wicker’s body, “getting out of West End while you could. They’ve gone downhill since Saul was removed. Nothing like they were when my husband was a member.”

‘Removed.’ Assassinated, more like. Whatever it takes for this woman to believe her son wasn’t the problem. Her son, who, if I understand correctly, was possibly killed by the man she’s currently eye fucking.

“Father only picks the best of the best, you know that, Christine,” Wicker says, giving me a wink. “And our Verity is proving herself worthy of the title.”

He leans in and kisses me on the temple, lips soft as butterfly wings.

“Oh, Whitaker, darling, you’re here.” Another woman comes over, a shiny gold name tag on her pale blue tweed suit jacket.Trudie Stein.

He leans forward to kiss her on the cheek, but she turns her head at the last minute, grazing his lips with her bold red lipstick. “Oops,” she laughs, reaching out to wipe his mouth with her thumb. “Clumsy.”

“Trudie,” Christine says, “Whitaker was just introducing me to thePrincess.”

Trudie’s eyes shift from my face to my belly and back up. “Welcome, sweetheart. How lovely of you to support my campaign.”

As these women hover around us, I try to figure out what’s happening here—who Wicker is in this space. Entertainment? A contribution, he said. The way Christine Oakfield’s hand lingers on his arm is a clear signal, and the smear of lipstick on the corner of his mouth is conspicuous. It’s possessive. And it’s an affront. For better or worse, Whitaker Ashby belongs to me.

“I came to support Wick.” I lean into his side, resting my hand on his hard stomach. “I’m so eager to hear him play,” I say, looking up at him sweetly, “you know, for a crowd. I’m used to solo performances, of course.”

“Serenades,” he laughs, charm exuding from him. “She’s my muse.” The women share a look, a dark flicker between them, and he pulls me closer, flush against his side, like armor.

“Well,” Trudie says, her demeanor turning chilly. “I hope you’ve brought a little of that inspiration with you tonight, because you’re the reason everyone is here.”

“Nonsense,” he says, blue eyes sparkling in the light of the chandelier. Wicker Ashby was made for moments like these. I see that now. “You’re the reason everyone is here. I’m just a bonus.”

The compliment melts a little of the ice. “We’ll start in ten minutes. Sound good?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Wicker replies.

A woman walks past us and Trudie grabs her arm. “Becca, darling, have you set out the donation cards yet?”

The woman stops, and there’s something different about her. She’s in a modest dress and comfortable shoes. Her hair is a little bit of a mess. She also has on a name tag that says,Becca Adams: Open Hearts.

Her smile is flustered but excited. “Yes, the twins will be stationed at the door and will give one to each patron as they depart.” She gestures to the two teenagers in the foyer.

Trudie giggles. “Micha and Michaela? That’s a fabulous idea. No one can say no to those adorable children.”

“They wanted to come,” Becca says, looking a little annoyed. “Gwen and her boyfriend are mingling as well.”

A hand flutters at Trudie’s pearls. “Such a family affair. The Adams’ are an asset to the community.”

Becca doesn’t look swayed by the flattery, but says, “We appreciate you bringing attention to our program.” She glances over. “You’re Whitaker, right?”

He graces her with a warm smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

Her eyes warm, but it’s not like the other women. Becca gives off a soft, maternal energy. “Your father is one of our biggest donors. Thank you so much for coming tonight. It means so much to not only have someone talented like you perform, but to also have one of our former match-ups participate.”

“Any time,” he says. “I’m happy to help.”

“Becca,” Trudie says, steering her by the arm, “let me introduce you to a few people before Whitaker starts.”

The two are swallowed in the crowd and we’re left with Christine, who assesses me and Wicker closely. “Guess I’ll go freshen up,” Christine says. “Verity, care to join me?”

It’s not a request, but Wicker holds onto me, pressing his fingers too close to the bite wound. “Sorry, Christine. I need Verity with me for a few more minutes.” He gives her a pouty grin. “You wouldn’t deprive a performer of his muse, would you?”

It’s clear she would, but instead of arguing, she turns on her heel and walks away, hips swaying in her tight dress.

Once we’re alone, I level him with a look. “I’m yourmuse?”