Page 136 of Desperate Games

“Because surely it wasn’t merit alone,” he continues, oozing false politeness. “Surely your family’s name, your marriage, your money paved the way?”

I feel my pulse spike.

My vision narrows.

I could break every bone in this man’s smug face before he drops his pen. But Andy? She’s got this.

My wife even surprises me with her grit and elegance.

Her chin lifts. Her hazel eyes sharpen, fire flashing there. And when she speaks, her voice is clear, steady.

“You’re right,” she says, and the reporter blinks like he wasn’t expecting her to agree. “My family has power. Money. Influence. All of that could and does pave the way.”

A pause.

“And it will help me raise the funds we need for the Save Our Children Anti-Trafficking Foundation. But these photos? I took them. I developed them. I did this work. No one but me. And if you’d like to confirm that, feel free to ask the gallery owner who rejected me three times under a pseudonym before finally hanging my work—without ever knowing my real last name.”

The man falters, frown tugging at his lips.

“See,” Andy continues, sweet as poison, “what you’re really asking me is if I belong here, in the art world. And the answer is yes. I belong. Not because of who my father is. Not because of who I married. But because my art speaks for itself. So maybe the better question is—why are you here? To report on art, or to gossip about families with more money, power, and responsibility than you can even fathom?”

The crowd nearby chuckles.

A few clap softly.

The collector Andy was speaking to actually smirks, raising his champagne.

And me? I’m two seconds from dragging my wife into the nearest dark corner and fucking her senseless for being the fiercest, most brilliant woman alive.

The reporter recovers enough to stammer, “Well. That’s, um, certainly one perspective.”

“No,” I cut in, voice low and lethal. He startles, looking up at me. “That’s the perspective. And if you twist a single word of hers into anything else, I’ll make sure every photo desk in this city knows you for what you are, and I guarantee you will be unemployable.”

His throat bobs. He mutters something about deadlines and retreats fast, tail tucked.

Andy exhales, shoulders sagging. Then she looks up at me, hazel eyes dancing despite the tension.

“Too much?” she whispers.

I shake my head slowly, leaning down so only she can hear.

“Perfect. You were perfect, Baby. And I’m gonna spend the rest of the night showing you just how proud I am.”

Her blush is everything.

And suddenly, the whole world could fall away, and I wouldn’t give a damn—because this, right here?

This is ours.

Epilogue One-Andrea

Parties are overrated.

And yeah, technically this one is mine.

My photography show. My wedding reception. My moment.

But right now?