It's show time

Sienna Blake's pov

The luminous street lights blur into a kaleidoscope of gold and crimson, their reflections dancing across asphalt like fractured stars in a liquid sky.

Not missing the beautiful setting sun far in the horizon with its dazzling rays gleaming distinctively.

The sharp headlights of other vehicles stab through my vision, leaving jagged streaks in their wake.

My breaths rush out into shallow, deep gasps, the anxiousness simmering into my spine, sinking deeper with every damn second.

The icy grip on my nerves makes the harsh blinding lights morph into an indistinct blur.

My hands tremble slightly, but I force them still as I clutch my purse tighter against my thigh.

“Nervous,”Jax implored, his gaze resting on my face.

"Would you blame me for being on edge?”I quipped before rushing out a chuckle that felt more forced than being real.

“You don't have to be, I will be by your side throughout the event,” he assured me, his hand resting on where my dress's slit bared most of my thigh, next to where my right palm was resting.

A slow, lazy smile graces my lips before I turn my head to stare at the whizzing LA traffic. But all my focus was on the lingering warm touch of his hand on my thigh.

Warm

So natural.

Somehow not warm enough to clear the anxious feeling budding in my stomach.

A conflicting contrast to the bunch of nerves storming inside me.

His gaze is fixed forward as he navigates the winding gravel road, its weathered stones polished to a soft sheen by generations of carriage wheels and luxury sedans. Palm trees, wrapped in ivy, stand tall along the path, their fronds rustling as their shadows stretch like velvet ribbons over manicured lawns.

The air carries the scent of aged oak and bergamot as the road curves toward the tall wrought iron gates adorned with gilded acorns and filigree. Their delicate curves softened by the patina of centuries.

The gates swing open as we glide to a stop before the Maison des Échos

That’s the place where we are—a museum cloaked in ivy and tradition. Its stone façade glows like moonlit marble. A spring bubbles up from the courtyard fountain, its melodic gurgle harmonizing with the distant low thrum of a string quartet.

“Stay here,” Jax kills the engine, unbuckles, and slides out, jogs around the front to my side.

His black tuxedo is perfectly tailored—its lapels sharp as knives, the emerald-green silk lining catching the light in a sly nod toward my dress. His Italian leather shoes gleam like polished onyx, and the diamond Cartier watch on his wrist flashes fire as he moves.

I’ve seen him in casual tees and jeans back at the agency, in the press photos where he’s mid-sprint on the football pitch, sweat-drenched and fierce.

But now? Now he’s a Greek god in formal armor, every inch of him radiating power and polish.

How his muscles flex beneath the fabric! Deliciously edible.

The door swings open, pulling me out of my daydream, and he offers his hand, palm up.

“Milady.” His smirks more like a dare. I loop my fingers around his wrist, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the starched cuff and it’s messing with my head. It’s fake, I remind myself. None of this is real.

““You’re really leaning into this gentleman act, Carter,” I tease.

His eyes glint in the honeying rays cast across the terrace gardens by the shimmering chandeliers.

“Careful there, Sienna. I’m not the gentleman you think I am.”

He tosses the car keys before shifting his caressing attention to me.

“You ready?” he asks, his voice steady, but there’s a flicker of tension in his shoulders.

“Absolutely,” I reply, my heels clicking against the stone. “Was born ready.”

We walk up the steps together, the soles of our shoes clanking in perfect sync—his Italian leather, my stilettos—like a heartbeat in the night.

Immediately, cameras go off in a dizzying burst of white-hot flashes. My face feels stiff from forcing a smile. Jax’s posture straightens, radiating confidence as we pause for the photographers.

“Jaxon! Over here!”

“Is she your new catch?”

“Is she good in bed?”

“Did you knock her up?”

“Another fling, Carter?”

Their voices overlap, brash and cutting. I feel Jax’s arm tense, but we keep moving, ignoring the barrage of rude questions. He steers me through the entrance, where the noise dims to a subdued hum of classical music and polite chatter.

As we step inside, the room erupts in a kaleidoscope of light and sound, chandeliers casting a diamond-studded glow across the polished marble floors.

The air is alive with the hum of power brokers—politicians with tailored smiles, business moguls with eyes that gleam like polished steel, and professional athletes who have traded their jerseys for bespoke suits that seem to shimmer in the light.

The scent of old money wafts through the space, a heady mix of cigar smoke, fine leather, and the faintest hint of champagne, all blending together to create an intoxicating aroma that speaks of influence and prestige.

The room vibrates with the soft clinking of crystal glasses and the murmur of conversations and rich laughters that are as much about deals as they are about charm.

A stout man with salt-and-pepper hair and a beaming smile approaches us, his wife—who can’t be a day over forty—clinging to his arm. Dean Harper. One of the biggest stakeholders in the Titans. I recognize him instantly from the background research I did before this event. His wife and soft spot, Jessie Harper, is a former model who now spends most of her time running a high-end charity for animal rights.

Decades ago, she dominated the beauty pageant scene, winning multiple prestigious titles that cemented her as a timeless icon. Miss Florida. Miss USA. Even a runner-up in Miss Universe.

And though the years have passed, she still carries herself like a reigning queen.

Her caramel-blonde hair falls in soft, effortless waves, not a strand out of place. Her emerald-green gown hugs her slender figure in a way that suggests she hasn’t let go of the discipline that made her a champion.

“Jaxon Carter!” Dean exclaims, extending a hand with a firm grip. “Glad to see you here. And you brought a date, I see.”

Jax forces a polite, obligatory grin. “Yeah, of course. Wouldn’t miss it.”

Jessie’s sharp eyes land on me, bright with curiosity. “How did you two meet?”

Jax looks like he’s already bored with the question, but I remember: Dean Harper’s opinion matters. This man has a massive stake in the Titans, and if he likes Jax, he could put in a good word for his upcoming contract negotiations.

So I jump in, offering Jessie my most charming smile. “At an animal shelter,” I say smoothly. “Jax volunteers there when he has time off. Feeding the puppies, you know that’s actually what made me notice him and the rest we say is history.“

Jessie’s expression shifts into something soft and approving. “That’s wonderful,” she gushes over Jax’s supposed altruism, turning to Dean. “Isn’t that wonderful, honey?”

Dean claps Jax on the shoulder. “Didn’t know you had such a soft spot, Carter. That’s a damn fine thing you’re doing son.”

Jax is completely thrown, but he recovers fast, schooling his features into an easy nod. “Yeah. Always been a dog person.”

Jax just smiles and shrugs, letting me handle the conversation. After a few more minutes of small talk, the couple wanders off to greet someone else, and Jax leans in to whisper, “Animal shelter?”

I arch a brow. “You’re welcome.”

Before he can respond, another figure steps into view. Tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a smug grin that makes my stomach tighten in warning. Beckett Vance, quarterback for a rival team—and apparently Jax’s personal nemesis.

“Carter,” Beckett says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Didn’t expect to see you here, playing dress-up.”

Jax’s jaw flexes. “Vance.”

They stare each other down, a silent battle of wills. I feel the tension radiating off Jax, practically bristling. Beckett’s gaze shifts to me, lingering a little too long.

“And who’s this?” Beckett asks, giving me a slow once-over. “You really know how to pick ’em, Carter. Mind if I steal her for a dance later?”

My pulse spikes at the challenge in his voice. Jax’s grip on my waist tightens, and I can almost see the anger rolling off him in waves.

Beckett smirks. “Ah, don’t get so touchy. Maybe I’ll just catch her when she’s free from your little—arrangement.”

My breath hitches. He knows? Or is he just throwing jabs?

Jax tenses like he’s ready to swing, but I press a hand to his chest, stepping forward. “Sorry, Beckett,” I say, forcing a polite tone. “I’m fully booked for tonight.”

Beckett’s smile twists. “Another time, then.” He slides his gaze to Jax, eyes glinting with malice. “I hope next time we meet, it’ll be with a more… agreeable date.”

He saunters off, leaving Jax and me in a charged silence. I feel Jax’s heart pounding under my palm, his chest rising and falling in heavy breaths. His eyes are fixed on Beckett’s retreating form, anger darkening his features.

“Don’t,” I murmur, shifting closer. “He’s just trying to get under your skin.”

Jax exhales sharply, unclenching his fists. “He’s lucky you’re here.”

I drop my hand, suddenly aware of how close we’re standing. Our eyes lock for a moment too long, and my stomach does a little flip.

Right. Fake. All of this is fake. But it sure as hell doesn’t feel like it.