Chapter 48 You're Distracting My Date
Amelia hung up with a shake of her head, but Bryson’s gaze never left her, that quiet intensity making her skin warm. He didn’t say it, but she could tell — he knew he was right where he needed to be.
The door had barely closed when Bryson turned toward her fully, his gaze sharp but curious. “What changed?”
She tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
“You,” he said simply. “A few weeks ago, you would’ve been worried about headlines, whispers, what people might say. Now you’re standing there like you couldn’t care less. I love it — don’t get me wrong — but I want to know why.”
Amelia studied him for a moment, weighing her words. “It’s not one thing. It’s… a mix, really. Being with Carl taught me what it feels like to be invisible. To be neglected, dismissed, treated like you’re only there for convenience.” She shook her head lightly. “Then I came here. To you. And every day, you show me what I mean to you — without me having to ask, without me having to wonder. I realized I love you, Bryson. And your love back…” She exhaled slowly. “It’s like a shield. It makes everything else — gossip, Carl, the press — obsolete.”
Something flickered in his eyes, the kind of emotion he didn’t hand out freely. “That,” he murmured, “is exactly why I’m going to make sure nothing touches you.”
And the way he said it, she didn’t doubt for a second that he meant it.
Upstairs, Amelia stood in front of the mirror for one last check before heading down. The sweetheart neckline of her gown framed her collarbones and shoulders perfectly, the structured bodice curving into her waist before the fabric hugged every inch of her through her hips. From the knees down, the mermaid flare whispered with each step, the rich emerald silk catching the light in a way that made the color glow against her skin.
But the real statement was the back — the gown scooped low in a clean, dangerous curve all the way to just above the swell of her backside, bare except for two nearly invisible side straps that kept everything in place. A waterfall of soft waves was swept over one shoulder to show the entire line of her spine, unbroken from neck to tailbone.
Gold stiletto sandals peeked from under the hem with every step, their slender straps gleaming like jewelry. Her makeup was as polished as the marble floors she’d soon walk on — warm smoky eyes, a touch of highlighter along her cheekbones, and a soft nude gloss on her lips.
Downstairs, Bryson was waiting in the foyer, hands in his pockets, focused gray eyes scanning the space until she appeared at the top of the sweeping staircase. For a moment, he forgot to breathe.
She descended slowly, the flare of the gown’s skirt trailing behind her, each heel-click echoing in the vast marble space. When she reached the bottom step, Bryson still hadn’t moved, still caught between admiration and possession.
“Baby…” His voice was low, almost reverent. “You walk into our wedding night wearing something like that… you’ll be pregnant before sunrise.”
Her laugh broke the spell for just a second, but the heat in his gaze never wavered. “Seriously?”
“Mhm,” he murmured, closing the space between them. “Dead serious.”
She shook her head but let him take her coat, draping it over his arm as they stepped out to where Frank, Bryson’s driver, was waiting beside the Maybach.
Frank, late thirties and annoyingly handsome in that clean-cut way, straightened as soon as Amelia came into view — and almost forgot himself entirely when he saw the gown.
Bryson’s hand slid possessively to the small of her back, his voice casual but carrying that unmistakable undertone of warning. “Evening, Frank.”
Frank blinked, recovering fast. “Evening, sir. Miss Amelia.” He opened the door without another glance.
Inside the car, the city lights stretched out around them. Amelia settled into the leather seat, her gown flowing like liquid silk around her. After a quiet moment, she turned her head toward him, expression playful but curious.
“You’ve mentioned kids three times now,” she said, glancing at him. “So I have to ask — you really want that? With me?”
His smile was slow, deliberate, as he shifted to face her fully. “Baby, I’ve been serious since the first time I saw you. The only difference now is… I get to say it out loud.”
Her lips curved, but she held his gaze. “And if I said yes?”
Bryson leaned in, brushing a kiss against her bare shoulder, his hand covering hers. “Then I’d make sure every day you knew how much you were loved. That’s the kind of family I want. With you. Only you.”
The warmth in her chest spread, soft and certain. She laced her fingers through his, letting her head rest briefly against his shoulder as the Maybach glided toward the glowing lights of the gallery.
Frank eased the Maybach to a stop at the curb outside the gallery, where light spilled through tall glass doors onto the sidewalk. The air was cool enough for Amelia’s breath to cloud faintly as Bryson stepped out first, adjusting his jacket before turning to offer his hand.
She placed her hand in his, the silk of her gown catching the streetlight as she emerged, every movement unhurried — deliberate.
The flash of cameras hit almost instantly. Not paparazzi, but the inevitable crowd of arts columnists and society bloggers who had been invited in hopes of catching a few candid shots before the evening began.
Bryson didn’t glance their way. His hand slid to Amelia’s waist — not tentative, but anchored — and he drew her close, bending to murmur something only she could hear. Whatever it was, it brought a slow, private smile to her lips.
They moved toward the entrance in perfect sync, his palm resting at the small of her bare back, thumb brushing lightly against her skin just above the low sweep of the gown. It wasn’t for show, but it was noticed.
Inside, the soft hum of conversation and the muted clink of champagne flutes wrapped around them. A host in a sleek black dress greeted them with a practiced smile, but her eyes flickered briefly between them — the subtle kind of double-take that came when a man’s attention was so clearly locked on the woman beside him.
Bryson handled the introductions with ease, one arm still draped around Amelia’s waist as if letting go simply wasn’t an option. The two of them weren’t loud or flashy; they didn’t need to be. Every shared glance, every casual touch was its own quiet statement — the kind of affection that couldn’t be staged.
And from the way people’s eyes followed them through the gallery, it was clear the statement had been received.
The gallery’s interior was a wash of soft light and bold color — white marble floors gleaming under the glow of recessed fixtures, walls lined with striking contemporary pieces that seemed to pull the eye in every direction. Strings of conversation wove through the space, punctuated by the clink of crystal and the low hum of a jazz trio playing near the back.
Claire was the first to spot them. She broke off mid-conversation with a pair of donors and practically floated over, her expression a mix of delight and something far more mischievous.
“Look at you two,” she said, giving Amelia an approving once-over before smirking at Bryson. “You clean up alright, Hearst.”
“Careful,” Bryson said, tone light but eyes warm on Amelia. “You’re distracting my date.”
Claire rolled her eyes but leaned in to kiss Amelia’s cheek. “You look incredible. And I say that as your friend who has seen you in sweatpants, so I know the full transformation here.”
Before Amelia could respond, Lila swept in from the far side of the room, her presence commanding as always. She wore a floor-length gown in midnight blue, sleek and understated — the perfect contrast to the way her smile lit up at the sight of Amelia.
“You made it,” Lila said, looping an arm through Amelia’s. Then, glancing over her shoulder at Bryson, “And you brought that tall accessory you insisted on. Good girl.”
Amelia laughed, shaking her head. “You didn’t exactly object.”
“Mm-hmm,” Lila said knowingly. “And this one is earning his keep already.”
Bryson stayed just close enough that his presence was felt even when he wasn’t speaking — a subtle shift of position to keep Amelia from being jostled by passing guests, a warm hand at her back when someone moved a little too quickly with a champagne tray.
It wasn’t possessive. It was protective, and Amelia carried it like armor.
When an older man in a perfectly tailored suit struck up a conversation about the art, directing most of his questions to her, Amelia held her head high, engaging without hesitation. She spoke with quiet confidence, her voice steady, her smile effortless.
Bryson didn’t interrupt — but he watched.
And when the man’s gaze lingered just a little too long on the open line of her back, Bryson’s hand slid more firmly to her waist. Not a word was said, but the message was clear enough that the man offered a polite nod and excused himself moments later.
As they moved deeper into the gallery, Lila caught Amelia’s eye and smirked. “You know, this whole thing started because I thought it would be fun to have you here for the art. Turns out the real exhibit is watching you two work a room.”
Amelia’s laugh was soft, but the glance she shared with Bryson was anything but casual.
It wasn’t the setting or the attention that mattered — it was that, in a room full of people, she felt entirely untouchable.
Amelia was still taking in the sweep of the gallery — the warm lighting, the hum of conversation, the slow movement of well-dressed patrons drifting between canvases — when a voice carried across the room.