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Their exhausting vitriol about dress size, the latest designers, and Emerald Bay’s most eligible bachelors—including either oblivious or tasteless remarks aboutmy brother—had run me out of patience in the first hour. The second had me rooting forthe Brioni-wearing man boisterously bickering with a brunette snake in Prada heels that cost more than most Americans’ paychecks. But their entertaining scuffle ended when security escorted them both out, much to my disappointment.
Pity,Greyson had said. What an interesting choice of words. One that made more and more sense the longer I was in a room with people who suddenly believed I was their peer rather than an underling to bark orders at and then forget just as quickly.
Much like the day of the photo session, Greyson had dropped the compliment, lifted my hand, and pressed my fingers to his lips with chivalrous formality before turning and vanishing into the organized chaos of party prep. It would have been the picture-perfect shot if a camera had been around. Some corner of my brain noted that he’d said itwithoutan audience. The idea of it being authentic was even more haunting than hearing him claimnothing brings me to my knees faster than this woman with her hair down.
But then…why didn’t he defend me? The man had me more confused than a zebra confronted with a referee.
While I’d been attending the notorious Hart brothers’ parties beside Greyson for years, he was right; thiswasdifferent. Being here as his assistant had been like wrapping myself in an invisibility cloak—not worth their time or energy. But the cloak had been stripped away, and I stood there in my lace dress, and the admittedly beautiful Jimmy Choo’s Greyson’s stylist selected, suddenly in the spotlight.
Everyone, no matter their social bracket, was clamoring for some nugget of information—about me, my family, the relationship with Greyson, how he proposed if we’d set a date or picked a location.
I was a small-town girl at heart with a huge family.
Our relationship developed slowly, during long nights spent poring over contracts while sharing pots of coffee and trips overseas, but it came to a climax last year in Paris.
He proposed on our favorite beach, and his German Shepard, Captain, wore a bow tie.
Women I’d met dozens of times at galas and luncheons suddenly deigned to remember my name as they attacked with mind-dizzying persistence.
“Oh, I bet your gown will be beautiful,” Julianne gushed, looking a little worse for wear after one too many glasses of champagne and a recently finalized divorce from husband number three. “Delilah Jean is absolutely to die for,” she added with a hiccup, not seeming to notice—or care—as she steadied herself on my forearm. “And Grey wouldn’t allow you to buy off the rack, after all.”
Grey. I hated that she felt comfortable enough to address him by his family’s nickname.
“Of course not,” Camilla added authoritatively. She was the daughter of an oil baron, her southern twang alive and well, no doubt aided by the martini sloshing in her hand. She eyed me up and down skeptically before adding, “He’ll have a bit of work cut out for him, I’m sure, just bringing you up to speed.”
It was a simple fact. Not slung like an insult but still insulting in her simple patronizing assessment and a passive-aggressive reminder of my status. Legally speaking, I was engaged to one of the wealthiest men in the country, and yet I’d never felt more like scum.
I pursed my lips, canting my head before saying, “Some men aren’t in the habit of finding women to work on so much as falling for those whose depth exceeds a pothole.” My smile grew as her confusion did. Probably shouldn’t have said it. But honestly. How many insults should a woman turn her cheek to before standing up for herself?
Rabble.
Has Greyson scheduled your boob job yet? A-cups are so 1999.
Oh, I have a surgeon that can do something about your nose.
Your face is pretty, just much too long.
Have you considered adjusting your smile?
Afisherman’sdaughter?! My, who knew Grey would like someone so…rustic?
These two had been aggressively chipping away at my flaws for the better half of the last hour while pretending they were thrilled to see me. Frankly, I’d had enough.
Jealous.
I knew they were jealous, buttheyhad no idea what they were so green over. Their assumptions were laughable given my scenario and even more ridiculous given how comedically unappealing Greyson found the socialite dating scene. I might not like the man, but at least I knew he wouldn’t fall into the clutches of one of these vipers.
“I’ll see you around, ladies,” I chirped in a saccharine tone, mimicking the obnoxious fluttering finger wave I’d been on the receiving end of all evening. Sighing my irritation, I turned away, downed the last of my vodka tonic, and wove through bodies toward the bar, ignoring eager smiles along the way. If I thought high school was catty, it had nothing on these rabid heiresses. Evidently, a man’s merit was entirely dictated by the money in his wallet rather than the heart in his chest or razor edges of a mind worth exploring.
Reaching the bar, I smiled at tonight’s bartender and wiggled my glass in hopes of a refill. His nod was like a life preserver. I clung to it, quite certain we were about to becomeveryclose friends.
Suddenly, I didn’t feel so bad about Greyson’s promised alimony. That thought was interrupted by a slick black tux hugging a slender body with a rather smug, albeit handsome, face attached to it.
Money might not buy happiness, but it certainly bought jaw lines and rhinoplasty just fine. The inhuman perfection around me was like a blinding mirror focused on my unacceptable pore size and prominent Mediterranean nose. I’d never cared about it until I was supposed to pass as one of them.
The suit extended a hand.
“Evening, Ms. Rhodes. Royce Ashcroft, pleased to meet you.”