Chapter 3: Spotlight and Stolen Glances

The stylists descended like a flock of very expensive vultures at nine sharp the next morning. I stood in the master suite's absurd walk-in closet, arms crossed over my ratty tank top, while three of them circled me like I was a canvas that had offended their aesthetic.

I bit my lower lip hard enough to taste metal. Last night's frozen standoff with Griffin still burned in my chest, the anonymous photo on my phone feeling heavier than the emerald necklace they'd just clasped around my throat. But here we were, pretending none of it happened because the board demanded a show.

"Hold still, Mrs. Radcliffe," the lead stylist cooed, pinning my auburn waves into something sleek and unrecognizable. Her fingers tugged too hard at my scalp.

The mirror showed a stranger. Emerald silk hugged curves I usually hid under oversized sweaters, the neckline dipping just enough to make me tug at it. My fair skin already looked flushed, green eyes too wide for the role I had to play tonight.

"This is ridiculous," I muttered, shifting my weight from one bare foot to the other. The marble felt grounding, at least. Screw heels, screw all of this.

Griffin appeared in the doorway without knocking, because of course he did. He filled the frame in a tux that looked painted on, dark hair tamed but still begging fingers to mess it up. Those intense brown eyes swept over me once, twice, lingering on the neckline before snapping back to my face.

"You'll do." His voice came out clipped, but his jaw did that thing—clench, clench, clench. Three times. I wondered if he knew I was cataloging his tells.

"High praise from the man who owns the closet." I turned, the dress whispering against my thighs. The heat in his gaze made my pulse stutter. Damn him. "Do I pass the billionaire wife test, or should they stuff me back in the box?"

He stepped closer, close enough that his cologne wrapped around me like a trap. Cedar and something sharper, like the edge of a deal gone wrong. My skin prickled under the silk.

"This gala is non-negotiable. The board expects to see the happy couple." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a velvet box. Inside gleamed a vintage necklace—delicate gold chain with a single emerald pendant that matched my eyes too perfectly to be coincidence.

"Your mother's?" I guessed, throat suddenly tight. The idea of wearing something with history, his history, felt too intimate for enemies.

"For optics." But his fingers trembled slightly as he lifted it, stepping behind me. The mirror reflected us like some twisted fairy tale—me in green, him all shadows.

Cold metal kissed my collarbone. His knuckles brushed the nape of my neck, lingering far longer than necessary. Warm breath fanned across my skin, sending a shiver racing down my spine. I watched his reflection, the way his eyes darkened as they traced the line of my throat.

"There." His voice had gone rough. He didn't step back right away. His hands settled on my shoulders, heavy and warm through the thin straps. For one reckless second, I leaned into the touch.

Then I remembered who he was. What he'd taken.

"Don't get any ideas, husband." I shrugged him off, ignoring how my body protested the loss. "This is theater. Not foreplay."

His lips twitched. Almost a smile. "Keep telling yourself that."

The drive to the gala passed in charged silence, broken only by the low hum of the town car. Seattle's lights blurred past the tinted windows, turning the space between us into a pressure cooker. My bare feet tucked under the silk, toes curling against the leather seat.

Every time his gaze flicked my way, my stomach flipped. I hated how aware I was of his thigh inches from mine, the way his fingers drummed once on his knee before stilling.

"Victor will be there," he said finally, staring out at the rain-slicked streets. "Play nice."

"Define nice." I twisted the emerald between my fingers, the stone warm now from my skin. "Do I bat my lashes at him too, or just save that for you?"

Griffin exhaled sharply, something almost like a laugh escaping. It transformed his face for a split second, making my chest ache with unwanted softness. Then the mask slid back into place.

"Just don't start a war at the hors d'oeuvres table."

The venue glittered under crystal chandeliers. Heads turned as we entered, whispers rippling through the crowd. Griffin's hand settled on my lower back, palm burning through the silk. Possessive. Claiming. I stiffened, but the heat of it spread anyway.

"Smile, wife," he murmured, lips brushing my ear. The proximity made my breath hitch. "Or at least pretend you don't want to stab me with that cocktail fork."

I leaned into him, turning my head so our cheeks nearly touched. To the room, it probably looked like adoration. "Keep your hand there any longer and I might test that theory."

His fingers flexed against my spine, sending sparks skittering across my skin. We moved through the crowd like that, bodies aligned in a dance neither of us had rehearsed.

An older couple approached, all diamonds and judgment. The woman eyed me like I was a puzzle with missing pieces. "Griffin, darling. And this must be the mysterious bride. Margaret, isn't it?"

"Maggie to my friends," I said sweetly, leaning harder into Griffin's side. His arm slid around my waist, fingers splaying possessively over my hip. My pulse roared in my ears. "Though I suppose Mrs. Radcliffe works too. For now."

Griffin chuckled low, the sound vibrating through his chest into mine. It sounded genuine. Dangerous. "She's being modest. Margaret's an artist. Quite talented."

The praise felt like a hook in my ribs, yanking at something vulnerable. I smiled wider to cover the sudden tightness in my throat. His thumb traced a slow circle on my hip bone, hidden from view.

They moved on eventually, leaving us in a pocket of space near the bar. I grabbed a flute of champagne, downing half in one go. The bubbles burned, but not as much as his continued touch.

"You're good at this," I said, voice pitched low. Sarcasm dripped from every word. "Practiced much?"

He turned me to face him, one hand still on my waist, the other lifting to tuck a stray wave behind my ear. His fingers lingered on the shell, tracing down to my jaw. My skin flushed hot under the contact.

"Only with you." The words slipped out quiet, almost accidental. His brown eyes held mine, intense and unreadable. For a heartbeat, the room faded. Just us, inches apart, breathing the same charged air.

Then Victor Lang materialized like the corporate grim reaper he was. Slicked-back blond hair, sharp suit, that perpetual half-smirk that never reached his eyes. "Griffin. A word?"

Griffin's hand dropped from my face, but not before his thumb brushed my lower lip. He gave me a look that promised this wasn't over. "Stay close."

I watched them retreat to a shadowed alcove, Griffin's broad shoulders tense under the tux. My champagne tasted sour now. Snatches of their conversation drifted back when I drifted closer, pretending to admire a modern sculpture.

"...drawing scrutiny," Victor was saying, voice smooth as oil. "Regulators sniffing around the merger details. This marriage looks desperate, Griffin. Like you're hiding something."

My stomach dropped. Hiding? Like the photo on my phone, Dad and Victor with their heads together like old conspirators? I pressed closer to the pillar, heart hammering against my ribs.

Griffin's reply came too low to catch fully, but his jaw was working overtime. Victor's response cut through clearer. "Fix it or the board will. This isn't the time to play house for real."

The words landed like a slap. I backed away too fast, nearly colliding with a waiter. My bare foot caught the edge of the marble, and I wobbled.

Strong hands caught my elbows. Not Griffin's. Some tech bro with too much gel in his hair and eyes that lingered on my cleavage. "Whoa there, beautiful. You okay?"

His smile was all teeth. My skin crawled, but I forced a laugh that sounded brittle even to me. "Fine. Just... new shoes. Metaphorically."

He didn't let go. "Haven't seen you at these things before. Friend of Griffin's?"

"Wife," I corrected, but my voice pitched up, betraying the lie of confidence.

"Lucky man." His gaze dropped again. "If you ever get bored of the ice king—"

"She won't." Griffin's voice sliced through like a blade. He appeared at my side, one arm snaking around my waist and pulling me flush against him.

The tech bro released me like I'd burned him. "Radcliffe. Didn't see you there."

"Clearly." Griffin's tone could freeze lava. His fingers dug into my hip, possessive in a way that sent unwelcome heat spiraling through me.

The man slunk away. I turned in Griffin's arms, pressing my palms to his chest to create space. Or maybe to feel the thunder of his heart. It matched mine, erratic and loud.

"Marking territory?" I whispered, tilting my face up. Our mouths were too close. His breath mingled with mine, whiskey and heat. "Down, boy."

His eyes flashed. "You looked uncomfortable."

"I had it handled." But my voice wavered. His intervention had loosened something tight in my chest. I told my brain to shut up about that.

The orchestra struck up a waltz. Griffin didn't ask. He simply took my hand, leading me out with that predatory grace that made my pulse race ahead of my feet.

His palm settled at the small of my back again, lower this time. Pulling me in until our bodies aligned, chest to chest, thigh brushing thigh through layers of fabric. The emerald at my throat caught the light between us.

We moved in silence at first, steps careful. Too aware of every point of contact. My bare feet followed his lead on the polished floor, the coolness grounding me even as his warmth pulled me under.

"You overheard," he said finally, voice a low rumble against my temple. Not a question.

I tilted my head, lips nearly grazing his jaw. "Enough. What's Victor so scared of? Besides me ruining your precious image?"

His hand tightened on my waist, fingers flexing into the silk like he could anchor us both. The music swelled, carrying us in slow circles. Every turn pressed us closer, his heartbeat a steady drum against my breast.

"Business. Always is." But his tone lacked conviction. His free hand found mine, lifting it to his shoulder. Calluses scraped gently over my knuckles, reminding me of those early mornings in the gym.

I swallowed hard, the proximity making my head spin worse than the champagne. His scent enveloped me, his body heat seeping through the dress until I felt branded. Hate felt distant and fuzzy right then.

"And us?" The word slipped out, vulnerable. "Is this business too? Your hand on my back like you own me?"

He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes. Brown depths swirled with something raw, unguarded. His jaw ticked once. "You know it's not."

The admission hung between us, fragile as the necklace at my throat. My fingers curled into his shoulder, gripping the fabric of his tux. I wanted to push him away. Wanted to pull him closer until there was no space for lies.

Instead, the song ended. We stood there a beat too long, bodies still pressed together, breaths syncing in the sudden quiet. Applause broke the spell. He released me slowly, but not before his thumb traced my spine in a secret caress that left me shaky.

"Balcony," he said, voice strained. "Before I do something stupid in front of the board."

The night air hit like a slap, cool and damp with Seattle mist. I gripped the stone railing, staring out at the glittering city below. My skin still burned where he'd touched me, the memory of his body against mine refusing to fade.

Griffin joined me, leaning beside me with his elbows on the rail. Close enough that our arms brushed. He didn't offer whiskey. Just stood there, jaw working like he was chewing on words he wouldn't say.

I missed painting without an audience. Without feeling like every stroke had to mean something bigger than me. The words almost came out, but I swallowed them.

The ride home was worse than the ride there. Silence sat heavy, broken only by the rain against the windows. I kept replaying his almost-admission, the way his hand had felt on my face. Too real.

"What was Victor talking about?" I asked finally, voice sharper than intended. "The regulators. The scrutiny. Is this marriage screwing up your precious empire?"

He stared straight ahead, profile carved in shadow. "It's handled."

"Bullshit." I twisted in the seat, silk riding up my thighs. "I heard enough. My father, Victor, secrets. When do I get the truth, Griffin? Or am I just the pretty prop until you decide I'm not useful anymore?"

His hands fisted on his knees. Jaw working. But he said nothing. The wall slammed back up, thicker than before.

Inside, the mansion felt colder than usual. Griffin disappeared into his private study without a word, door clicking shut like a period at the end of a sentence neither of us knew how to finish.

I paced the master suite, dress discarded in a heap of emerald betrayal. My sketchbook called from under the mattress, but I ignored it. The anonymous photo on my phone taunted me instead—Dad and Victor, thick as thieves. My own secret felt like lead in my gut.

Sleep wouldn't come. Not with my skin remembering his touch, my mind replaying his words. I slipped out, barefoot as always, and padded toward the study. The door wasn't fully latched. A thin slice of light spilled into the hall.

Paranoia and curiosity warred in my chest. I pushed it open a fraction, heart in my throat. The desk was neat, but a drawer beneath it stood slightly ajar. Like someone had been interrupted.

I knelt, fingers trembling as they tugged it further. Inside, papers. An old newspaper clipping about the acquisition, headlines screaming failure and fraud. And beneath it, a photo. Dad, younger, shaking hands with a much younger Griffin. Smiling. Like they knew each other.

My stomach plummeted. What the hell? My own hidden photo burned in my memory, another piece of the same puzzle I wasn't supposed to have.

Footsteps behind me. I froze, the clipping crumpling in my grip.

"Find what you were looking for, Margaret?"

Griffin's voice was dangerously low, right at my back. I rose slowly, turning to face him. He loomed in the doorway, tux jacket gone, shirt unbuttoned at the collar. The look in his eyes wasn't anger. It was something hungrier. More dangerous.

He stepped forward, backing me against the desk without touching me. The wood dug into my thighs through my thin robe. His heat enveloped me again, that same electric pull from the dance floor amplified in the dim light.

"I told you not to go through my things." But he didn't sound mad. His gaze dropped to my mouth, then lower to where my robe had slipped open at the neck. The emerald necklace still circled my throat.

My breath came shallow, chest rising to brush his. "Then stop hiding shit that involves my family. What is this, Griffin? You knew my father?"

He braced his hands on the desk on either side of me, caging me in. Our bodies aligned without quite touching, tension coiling so tight I could barely breathe. His eyes burned into mine, jaw ticking furiously.

"It's complicated." The words ghosted across my lips. So close. One shift and we'd collide.

I tilted my chin up, defiant even as my pulse hammered. "Uncomplicate it. Or I walk."

His control snapped. One hand slid into my hair, not gentle, tilting my head back. His mouth hovered over mine, breaths mingling hot and desperate. I felt his heartbeat through the thin space between us, wild as my own.

"You have no idea what you're asking," he growled, but his thumb traced my jaw like I was something precious. Breakable. His.

The drawer, the photo, the lies—all of it faded under the weight of this moment. I wanted him to kiss me. Hated that I wanted it. My fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer even as my mind screamed to push away.

His lips brushed mine, barely. A promise. A threat. Then he froze, breathing hard, eyes squeezed shut like he was fighting a war I couldn't see.

The hook dangled there between us—truth or surrender, I wasn't sure which would destroy me first.