Page 111 of Bribed by the Billionaire Bad Boy

At my extended silence, her gaze drops again, and she murmurs, “Mom got a hold of me. I couldn’t exactly hide an evening gown I had to hang up.” Rotating slowly, she displays her hair and the fact that woman has somehow woven it into flowers around the crest of her head.

I’ve never seen anything so enchanting.

“I apologize,” I offer. “I cannot pity you while I’m so completely enraptured.”

Her brows dip, and she scans me from head to toe. I left my suit jacket in the car, so I wouldn’t wrinkle it while I was driving, but everything else, right to an agitating amount of product in my hair, is fit for the show.

“I hope that’s uncomfortable,” she mutters in reference to my outfit. “I’m not allowed to touch my face. Or cry. I have to count how many times Iblink, and if that’s not bad enough, there’s stuff on my mouth.”

I stare, blissfully oblivious.

She demystifies the situation. “I can’t justeat.” She opens her hands, presenting her little phone and a stick of gloss that matches the slick shade coating her lips. “Mom forced me to bring this. ‘Torture yourself,’ she said. ‘If you start feeling the slightest bit free, put it back on.’”

My brows pucker, and I offer her my arm. “I am so sorry, sugar. I just can’t feel anything but guilt for enjoying this.”

“Never again,” she states, latching onto my arm so I can bring her the short walk to my car.

My chest pinches with those words, but I try not to let them feel like the early rejection they are.

We make it in one piece, and I pop both Calypso’s phone and torture device into my pocket as I whip on my jacket and adjust my cuffs. For a scene, I would have a grand time playing dress up. For my father’s stout company, I can’t find an inch of interest to comply.

Only Calypso’s toying smile keeps me from falling into my usual “detached son” role.

“What?” I ask.

“Kenneth.”

“Ha.” I offer her a smirk. “I thought I wasn’t supposed to play around with Kenneth casually. Is this suit going to be a problem? I’m happy to take it off and grab a hoodie.”

“After this, you owe me a hoodie.” She huffs, extending herhand and waiting for me to offer my arm.

She does need a hoodie. Particularly because it will be funny to still tell people we aren’t dating while she’s so blatantly sporting my clothes.

Offering my arm, I tuck her hand into the crook of my elbow and draw her out of the garage with a sigh. “Your role is princess, sugar.”

In a second, she becomes the picture of elegance, tall and graceful, each of her clicking steps dainty and deliberate. When she speaks, even her voice is refined. “Does that make you a prince,Alexander?”

“Absolutely.” I lean toward her ear, whispering, “I can even do an accent if you’d like.”

Her laughter is like a pristine chime of bells, and a drop of anxiety swirls in my stomach at the realization my Calypso has transformed into someone else. She says, “Please. I’m certain that would raise suspicions.”

She’s right.

We step inside.

“Alexander, Calypso.” Ophelia stands near the door, her blue eyes trailing over us. She marks something off on her tablet, ever stiff in her usual pant suit. “Mr. Hawthorn wanted me to express his gratitude that you decided to attend with Alexander.”

“I was somewhat surprised to receive such an invitation, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to expand my repertoire. Please do excuse any unusual behavior.” She motions a delicate hand at the crystalline world my house has turned into overnight. “This role is a stark contrast to my ordinary character.”

Ophelia’s brows rise, her expression unchanged, and she shoots me a brief look to confirm I’m not up to anything.

I kiss Calypso’s temple, holding Ophelia’s gaze, to confirm I am—always—up to something. Even though this is honestly allon Calypso. Of course she has to do something to make this whole event less dull.

Ophelia clears her throat. “Well. Try to enjoy yourself.”

“I will, thank you.” Calypso’s flawless smile forces me to hold back a laugh as I guide her toward the ballroom. The second we step into the buzz, Calypso’s attention drifts toward the piano.

Someone else is seated at it. Filling the hum with the backdrop of music.