CHAPTER 6

ANNA POV

“You look like her,” Peter says from the doorway behind me.

I freeze, adjusting the cold emerald drop earring against my lobe. In the gilded mirror, my green velvet gown hugs every curve, tight and suffocating. It’s the exact shade Mary selected for me three weeks ago. I look like my stepmother’s perfectly obedient doll.

Peter steps into the frame behind me, adjusting his black silk bowtie with disciplined precision. His face is an unreadable mask of cold granite, his eyes sharp and completely detached.

“I look like a target,” I reply, my voice tight as I turn to face him. “Mary picked this dress so everyone in the room knows I belong to her brand.”

“Then wear it like armor,” Peter says, offering me his arm without a trace of warmth in his face. “Three hundred investors are downstairs. My father expects a unified front. Do not ruin this before we even reach the floor.”

“I’m not going to ruin anything,” I whisper, wrapping my hand around his stiff forearm. “I just want to throw up.”

“Hold it in,” he replies, leading me toward the double doors of the ballroom. “The cameras are active the second we step off the staircase.”

The roar of the Voss Foundation Gala hits us like a tidal wave—clinking crystal, live strings, and the bright flash of press photography.

Richard stands at the center of the main stage, a champagne flute raised high as he spots us descending.

“Look at them,” Richard’s voice booms through the microphone, echoing off the marble pillars. “My children—finally united under one roof, standing together for the future of Voss Holdings.”

Applauses ripple through the crowd. Cameras flash rapidly, blinding us as Richard signals for the orchestra to shift key into a traditional waltz.

“Walk,” Peter mutters through locked teeth, pulling me smoothly toward the open parquet floor. “We dance, we smile, we give them the photo spread for tomorrow’s financial section.”

He turns me into his frame. His right hand rests flat against the small of my back, right over the open dip of my green velvet dress. His palm is firm, professional, and entirely unmoving. His thumb doesn't twitch. His fingers don't press. It’s the touch of a man holding a business contract.

“Smile,” he murmurs, his eyes scanning the surrounding crowd over my shoulder. “You’re supposed to adore me.”

“I’m trying,” I say, my breath coming too fast as I try to follow his step. “It’s just that the orchids in the centerpieces are entirely wrong for the table height. Mary picked white orchids because she thinks they project purity, but they completely block the line of sight across table four, which is ridiculous because table four is where the primary institutional lenders are sitting, and if they can’t see the stage, they’re going to get annoyed before the second course even arrives—”

“Breathe through your nose,” Peter interrupts, his voice low, clipped, and razor-sharp against my ear. “You’re babbled. You’re shaking.”

“I’m nervous,” I shoot back, my heart hammering against my ribs as he spins me past a line of reporters. “My ex-boyfriend is sitting fifty feet away holding hands with your father’s mistress. Forgive me if I’m not performing up to your corporate standards.”

“Keep your mouth shut and focus,” Peter says, his grip on my waist tightening by a fraction of an inch just to keep my frame aligned with his. “We have work to do at dinner.”

The music swells and ends. We bow seamlessly for the flashbulbs before stepping toward the primary dining hall.

While the crowd clears toward the bar, Peter smoothly steps between two waiters carrying tray setups near the head table. I move right beside him, shielding his hands from the view of the main floor.

With two flicking motions of his wrist, Peter switches the place cards on the main centerpiece. He slides Mary’s card directly beside Arthur Vance—the investigative financial columnist who spent the last three years writing takedowns on her charitable foundation.

I reach down and grab Jack’s card, sliding it away from the head table and shoving it right between two lead investors from Vance Capital—the exact men Jack owes six hundred thousand dollars to after his failed offshore venture.

“Small victories,” I whisper, sliding my hands into my dress pockets as we step away into the crowd.

“It’s not a victory until Mary loses her temper on camera,” Peter says coldly, stepping beside me as the guests begin finding their seats.

As he speaks, my hand twitches up to check my hair, and the heavy emerald earring slips from my lobe, clattering onto the marble floor between us.

I gasp, bending down to grab it, but Peter is already faster. He stoops, his long fingers snapping around the heavy stone before it can roll under a table leg.

He stands up, stepping directly into my personal space. His left hand comes up to lift my chin, his fingers brushing soft and warm against the sensitive skin of my neck as he holds the metal post against my earlobe.

His eyes drop to my mouth. He freezes.

The cold, calculated look in his face breaks for a single, fraction of a second. His chest heaves once, hard and heavy against mine, his pulse visibly thumping against his throat as his breath catches in his chest. For three solid seconds, he stays planted right there, staring down at me while his thumb presses flush against my bare skin.

Then, his jaw hardens back into iron.

He drops the earring heavily into my open palm, pulling his hand back as if my skin was made of burning coal.

“Don’t fall apart in public,” he says, his voice flat, icy, and completely distant once again.

He turns his shoulder to me, taking his seat at the high table without looking back.

My heart thumps violently in my chest as I sit in the chair right next to his, my fingers trembling as I secure the jewelry back into place. Cold words. But he stood closer than he needed to, and his hand stayed against my neck for three seconds too long.

At the center of the head table, Richard stands up, clicking his silver spoon against his crystal glass to gather the room’s attention.

“A toast,” Richard announces, holding his glass high as the entire ballroom goes silent. “To family—the only foundation that truly matters in this world.”

The room echoes with polite cheers and raising glasses.

Beside me, Peter raises his champagne flute, his face impassive as he brings the rim to his lips. He turns his head slightly, clinking his crystal glass softly against mine.

Clink.

Underneath the thick white tablecloth, out of sight of the three hundred investors and all the press cameras in the room, Peter’s heavy knee slides firmly against mine.

I stiffen. He doesn't pull away. I don't move my leg back either. The solid, heavy heat of his leg presses straight through my velvet dress, anchoring me to the floor while the room claps around us.

I take a slow sip of my champagne, staring straight ahead at my father and stepmother as my internal monologue screams through the noise.

I hate him, I think, my knee pressing harder against his in the dark. I hate that he’s the only solid thing in this entire room.