Chapter 2 — He Came as My Guest

“Who is Ronan Varelli?”

I looked at the response confirmation on my screen.

“My guest.”

A pause.

“Is this a joke?”

“No. You told me to bring someone.”

“I know what I said.”

“Then we’re both following the conversation beautifully.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“At work.”

“What kind of work?”

I glanced around the studio I had rented, renovated, and kept alive without Bennett’s assistance.

“The kind I’ve been doing for six years.”

“You know what I mean, Laurel.”

I did.

He wanted an explanation that restored the arrangement he understood: important men over there, me somewhere else.

I rested my elbow on the desk.

“You invited me with a guest. I accepted with a guest. If that presents a problem, you can say so.”

“It doesn’t present a problem.”

“Excellent.”

“Does Arabella know?”

“I assumed you’d share your guest list with the woman you’re marrying.”

His breath changed.

Once, that would have warned me to soften my voice.

Today, I waited.

“I just don’t want you making the evening uncomfortable.”

“Neither do I.”

I ended the call.

My hand shook afterward.

Mia saw it when she came over with two mugs of tea.

She placed one beside me without commenting.

“Are we doing the thing where I say you don’t have to go?”

“No.”

“Good. I hate that thing. You already know.”

I wrapped my fingers around the mug.

“He sounded worried.”

“Did you enjoy that?”

“A little.”

“That seems medically normal.”

I laughed.

The sound loosened something in my chest.

For the next two days, I worked.

There were three hundred place cards to finish, a restaurant opening to quote, and a presentation portfolio that needed its revised title page bound before Friday.

My landlord did not accept emotional breakthroughs in place of rent.

Neither did the paper supplier.

By Saturday afternoon, the studio was closed and I was standing in my bedroom between two dresses.

One was black, high-necked, and bought during my last year with Bennett.

He had called it tasteful.

The other was green silk, with a draped neckline and a fitted waist. I had bought it for a gallery opening I never attended because a client’s shipment arrived damaged that morning.

I put on the black dress.

In the mirror, I looked prepared to apologize.

I took it off.

The green silk slipped over my hips and settled against my body.

For several seconds, I stood very still.

My waist was visible.

So were my breasts, my stomach, the curve of my hips.

Nothing about the dress concealed the fact that I occupied space.

I reached behind me for the zipper.

Then my phone buzzed.

I’m downstairs.

Ronan.

I looked at the black dress lying across the bed.

Left it there.

Downstairs, he stood beside the car in a dark suit and white shirt, the collar open beneath his jacket.

His gaze lifted when I stepped through the building entrance.

He said nothing immediately.

That silence made me more nervous than a compliment would have.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“No.”

“You’re looking at me.”

“Yes.”

I adjusted my clutch.

“You could provide context.”

“You look beautiful.”

He said it without surprise.

As though beauty had not required an explanation or an exception.

“Thank you,” I managed.

His driver opened the rear door.

Ronan offered his hand while I stepped off the curb. He released it as soon as I was balanced.

Inside the car, I checked the time.

Four seventeen.

“Two minutes late,” I said.

“You came down two minutes after I arrived.”

“I’m establishing that neither of us is perfect.”

“I wasn’t aware we needed to.”

“We’re attending a wedding. People get unrealistic ideas.”

He glanced at me.

“Do I need to hear the rules again?”

“That depends. Can you recite them?”

“I’m your guest. We aren’t pretending to be involved. I don’t interfere with Bennett’s career, threaten him, or purchase the building.”

“You left out the cell service.”

“I thought that was covered by threats.”

“Acceptable.”

He looked toward the window.

I watched his reflection in the glass.

Up close, the scar beside his temple was narrower than I had thought. His hands rested loosely on his knees, but nothing about him looked unguarded.

“Is your driver also security?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Will he come inside?”

“Not unless needed.”

“And how would he know?”

Ronan turned back to me.

“Would you prefer the detailed answer?”

I considered it.

“Probably not while wearing heels.”

“We can discuss it another time.”

Another time.

I looked down at my clutch before he could see what those words did to me.

The Halcyon’s entrance glowed beneath an awning of white flowers.

Bennett would have loved the effect.

Expensive enough to impress people, restrained enough to pretend expense had never been the point.

Our car stopped behind a silver limousine.

A doorman opened the door.

I stepped onto the pavement, gathered the side of my skirt, and looked up at the hotel.

My stomach tightened.

Ronan came around the car.

“Do you want a minute?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“If I stand out here thinking, I’ll eventually convince myself the sidewalk needs me.”

He offered his arm.

I hesitated.

“Does this violate the rules?”

“You’ll have to consult whoever wrote them.”

I took it.

Inside, a woman with a tablet checked my name.

“Laurel Finch.”

“Yes.”

Her gaze moved to Ronan.

Something altered in her posture.

“Mr. Varelli. Welcome.”

“Thank you.”

She directed us toward the ballroom.

A security manager near the doors stepped forward.

“Good evening, sir.”

Ronan nodded.

We had taken perhaps six steps into the reception area when a man abandoned the conversation he was having and came directly toward us.

“Ronan. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Neither was I, until Thursday.”

The man laughed a little too quickly.

Ronan introduced me.

“Laurel Finch. She owns Finch Lettering Studio.”

Not his date.

Not someone attached to his name.

My name. My work.

“I’ve seen your work,” the man said. “The Mercer Foundation dinner?”

“We did the menus and place cards.”

“My wife kept hers.”

“Please tell her I approve. Usually they end up under dessert.”

He smiled, this time naturally.

Another guest approached.

Then another.

A woman whose photograph I recognized from a property magazine touched Ronan’s sleeve, thought better of it, and withdrew her hand before he acknowledged her.

I leaned closer when the first cluster finally moved away.

“You said you were coming as my guest.”

“I am.”

“Your guests usually receive visiting delegations?”

“I know these people.”

“They seem deeply relieved you remember.”

His eyes shifted toward me.

“You’re doing well.”

I almost made a joke.

Instead, I let myself hear it.

Then I saw Bennett.

He stood beside a column, speaking to an older man.

His smile vanished.

For one brief, satisfying moment, he looked exactly as unprepared as I had felt when he ended our engagement.

Then he recovered.

He approached with his shoulders back.

“Laurel.”

“Bennett. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

His eyes moved to Ronan.

“Mr. Varelli. It’s a pleasure.”

Ronan shook his hand.

“Laurel invited me.”

I nearly smiled.

Bennett looked at me.

“You two know each other?”

“Yes,” I said.

“How?”

“Bennett, your ceremony starts in ten minutes. Are you sure this is the conversation you want to prioritize?”

His mouth tightened.

A hotel coordinator appeared at his shoulder.

He excused himself.

I watched him go.

My heartbeat was still fast, but the thing I had feared had already happened.

He had seen me.

I had survived it.

During the ceremony, I sat beside Ronan in a row near the back.

I watched Bennett promise tenderness to another woman.

There was a time when those words would have gutted me.

Now I found myself looking at Arabella and wondering whether she understood how Bennett defined them.

Afterward, champagne circulated beneath the ballroom chandeliers.

Ronan stayed beside me until an older executive approached and asked for a private word.

He looked at me first.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Go.”

“Five minutes.”

“You’re allowed to speak to people.”

“So are you.”

He moved toward a quieter corner.

I took a canapé from a passing tray.

Bennett appeared before I finished it.

“Now that we’re alone,” he said, “can you tell me what’s actually happening?”

“I’m eating pastry.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Eat?”

“Act as though you don’t understand.”

I swallowed.

He glanced toward Ronan, then back at me.

“How much did you pay him?”