Out of Place

By the time they arrived at the gala, the city lights of Beverly Hills twinkled like a constellation scattered across the hills.

The driveway sloped up, lined with expensive vehicles, their polished surfaces reflecting the ornate lamps that punctuated the entrance.

Thomas parked the car himself. Piper stepped out, the stilettos on her legs clicked sharply on the stone driveway. Her heart raced against her ribs, like an animal trapped in a beautiful cage.

The crowd was immediate. The flash of cameras assaulted her, reporters’ murmurs barely understandable over the hum of the elite gathering. Eyes swept over her as she followed Thomas’ hand, gripping firmly on hers.

Inside, the ballroom unfolded in marble and light—crystal chandeliers overhead, mirrors stretching the space wider, waiters weaving through with silver trays while a string quartet played softly.

Thomas led her through the room, stopping as faces recognized him.

“Elliot Ward,” Thomas said smoothly. “Chairman of Ward Dynamics.”

Ward straightened, smiling. “Ahh. The Tech Man Thomas! My friend, always a pleasure.” They shook hands. His gaze shifted to Piper. “And the lovely lady?”

Thomas answered without hesitation. “Meet Piper. My wife.”

The word landed. Unavoidably heard.

Piper felt it draw attention, felt the brief pause as it registered. Ward’s wife, an early forties statuesque beauty in emerald silk, smiled too brightly. “She’s lovely,” she said, her eyes already moving on.

Thomas’s steady fingers closed around Piper’s hand deliberately, as they turned away.

Moving on.

“Harlan Price,” Thomas continued. “Founder of Harlan Cybersecurity, a startup. He’s also my business associate.”

Harlan shook Thomas’s hand, then looked at Piper. “Didn’t know he’d finally settled down,” he said, amused. “He’s been dodging us for a while.”

“We value our privacy,” Thomas replied.

“And now you bring her into a room full of sharks,” Harlan said, lowering his voice. “Brave man.”

“My wife can handle herself,” Thomas said, his hand pressing briefly at Piper’s back before dropping away.

She noticed that.

The way he touched her whenever someone was watching, as if marking his territory.

He felt it too, the glances, mostly male, sliding across the room, lingering on her. Some too bold, some admiring, envious. He didn’t like it, but… he couldn’t deny the heat that ran through him at seeing them look, the way their eyes acknowledged what was his.

His chest tightened with a strange, unfamiliar pleasure. Not lust exactly. More like Pride, a sense of proud ownership. Piper at his side, simple, soft… and yet every head turned to her. Every whisper felt like a victory he hadn’t quite earned but couldn’t resist.

A quiet satisfaction curled inside him. He denied it, called it an observation. And yet he could not stop noticing the way she made the world pause, especially with her laugh.

They passed the champagne tower.

Nearby stood Evelyn DeVries, a former model, and wife of the chairman of DeVries Industries, her posture effortless, her gaze observing. Beside her was Mariana Price, Harlan’s wife, diamonds catching the light each time she moved her head. With them was  Lucinda Williams, a sophisticated widow who, after her husband’s death, possessed immense wealth—and very little idea what to do with it.

Their voices carried just far enough.

“Did you hear?” Evelyn murmured, eyes tracking Piper. “Thomas Anderson’s new wife is here. That… girl.”

Mariana tilted her head. “The one from… what did they say? From humble beginnings?”

Lucinda scoffed softly. “I wonder what happened to the girlfriend. The model. Paige. Is it—”

“Yes,” Evelyn cut in lightly. “She probably didn’t meet the marriage requirements, whatever they were.” The women laughed softed.

Thomas didn’t slow. His hand slid back into Piper’s, fingers tightening once as he guided her past them.

“She’s pretty enough,” Lucinda added. “But do you know her worth? Her family? Not that it matters now, marrying into money like this.”

Evelyn smiled. “Pretty, yes. But Thomas… picking someone like her? I wonder if he’s bored.”

Mariana laughed quietly. “Bored, perhaps. Notice the dress, Valentino, I’d say. The bag, Gucci? Shoes are definitely Prada. Still, the way she carries herself… she’s clearly out of place.”

Soft laughter followed.

Thomas continued introducing Piper, his voice carrying the authority of a man with worth, both in wealth and status.

Each time: “My wife.”

Hands were shaken. Names exchanged. Smiles held too long. Piper felt herself moved through the room, placed where she was directed, released, reclaimed.

Each time, Piper felt herself being placed—on display, like an artifact.

A toast sounded somewhere. Applause rose. Cameras flashed near the entrance as another wave of guest was ushered out. The gala hummed—low music, clinking glasses, ambition wrapped in performance.

Then someone called his name.

“Thomas—quick word.”

He hesitated. Looked at Piper. For a brief second, something conflicted passed through his eyes.

He leaned down, voice for her alone. “Stay close. I’ll be right back.” Then his hand slipped from hers.

She nodded, staring after him as her left hand dropped to the side.

Thomas moved through the crowd in his navy tuxedo, the jacket snug at the shoulders, trim at the waist, each step measured and effortless. His short, dark hair was neatly combed, sharp at the sides, with a slight fall at the front that caught the light. And for a moment her eyes lingered, tracing the confidence that seemed to draw the room toward him. Her chest warmed as she realized quietly, almost guiltily, how impossible it was not to notice him.

The room shifted as he stepped away, leaving Piper feeling removed from his protection and more vulnerable. She accepted a glass from a passing waiter, her fingers unsteady against the stem.

Nearby voices sharpened without his presence.

“…heard she’s temporary.”

Piper turned before they could see her react and walked toward the balcony.

Behind her, inside the gala, the world kept smiling.

And somewhere else entirely, a message reached Paige.

      'She’s alone. At the balcony.'