Chapter 103 The Winter Gala
The interior of the Maybach was silent, save for the low hum of the heater and the muffled sounds of Boston traffic outside. Beside me, Rhys was a silhouette of tailored charcoal wool and quiet intensity. I looked out the window, watching the familiar brick and stone of the Back Bay blur into a smear of gold and gray, feeling like the world was spinning much faster than the car.
Everything had become a tangled web I couldn't unweave. This started as a contract—my expertise in digital forensics used to track down Caleb Finch, a disgruntled former employee whose vendetta against Rhys had escalated into a terrifying campaign of deepfakes. We knew Finch was trying to dismantle Rhys’s reputation and career, but the discovery of a potential link between Finch and my biological father, Dale Winslow, had turned a professional nightmare into a personal haunting.
Then there was the engagement. It was supposed to be a strategic move, a "fake" shield to protect us both, but the lines had blurred until they disappeared entirely. We had slept together three times now—each time more devastatingly real than the last. Rhys had told me he loved me, that he’d loved me since the moment he first saw me. I felt myself falling, reaching for him in the dark, but the "fake" foundation of our start made every declaration feel like it was built on shifting sand.
And then there were my brothers. Jace, Grant, and Owen—Rhys’s best friends—were now locked in a bitter war of words with him. The fallout over loyalty and betrayal regarding our relationship had fractured the only stable support system I had, leaving me caught in the middle of a crossfire between the men I grew up with and the man I was terrified of losing.
"Ellie." Rhys’s voice was soft, his hand finding mine. His thumb traced my knuckles. "You're miles away."
"I'm just thinking about Finch," I lied, though it was a half-truth. "And how all of this is supposed to end."
"It ends with him behind bars and you by my side," he said firmly. "The rest is just noise."
The car pulled up to the curb of the Pierre Hotel. The red carpet was a gauntlet of flashbulbs and high-society expectations. As the door opened, the freezing New England air bit at my skin. Rhys stepped out first, offering his hand to help me down.
I took it, bracing myself for the usual questions about the Vance-Winslow merger. But as my heels hit the pavement, a voice sliced through the cacophony, louder and more jagged than the rest.
"Ellie! Does Dale Winslow’s release from prison change your testimony? How does it feel to know the man who tried to kill you when you were thirteen is walking the streets of Boston tonight?"
The world stopped. I knew he was out; the family had been bracing for it for weeks. Dale had served every second of his sentence for the attempted murder of his own daughter. But I hadn't expected the press to dig it up—not here, not now. That part of my life was a buried scar, a dark secret that was never supposed to be part of the Vance narrative.
I felt the blood drain from my face. Before I could even blink, Rhys moved. He didn't just step in front of me; he shielded me entirely, his large frame blocking the cameras.
"One more word about her family and I’ll have your credentials pulled before the gala starts," Rhys hissed at the reporter, his voice vibrating with a lethal edge.
"Back off!" Jace’s voice boomed from behind us. My brothers were there in an instant, a wall of Winslow fury. Owen and Grant flanked us, their expressions terrifyingly identical as they shoved through the crowd, creating a human corridor that led us into the safety of the lobby.
Inside, the opulence of the Pierre felt stifling. My brothers stood nearby, still vibrating with protective adrenaline, while Rhys kept his hand firmly on the small of my back.
"Are you okay?" Owen asked, his eyes searching mine. The tension between him and Rhys was still palpable, a heavy weight in the air despite their shared defense of me.
"I'm fine," I whispered, though my heart was hammering against my ribs. "I just didn't think they'd know."
"They don't know anything," Rhys muttered. "They’re scavengers."
As the evening progressed, the adrenaline faded into a dull, aching exhaustion. Rhys was pulled away for a moment by a board member, and I retreated toward the champagne fountain, needing a second of anonymity.
"It’s quite the performance, isn't it?"
I turned to find a woman standing there. She was stunning in a way that felt effortless, wearing a silk slip dress the color of spilled red wine. I recognized her from the tabloids of Rhys’s past—Sienna Rossi, a high-profile model he’d been linked to for a summer a few years back.
"Sienna," I said, keeping my voice neutral.
"Don't look so defensive, darling," she said, tilting her glass toward me. "He’s a magnificent man, really. And he’s very good at the 'devoted protector' bit. He did it for me, too, when my stalker situation went public."
I felt a cold prickle of unease. "Is there a point to this?"
"The point is, Rhys Vance likes a project," she smiled, and it didn't reach her eyes. "He loves a woman who needs saving. It’s his brand. But once the crisis is over and the deepfakes are gone and your father is back in the shadows... well, you’ll find he gets bored quite easily. You’re the flavor of the month, Ellie. Enjoy the pedestal while you’re on it, but don't expect it to last once the drama dies down."
She patted my arm and vanished into the crowd. I stood there, the cold glass of champagne sweating in my hand, as her words coiled around the doubts I already had. Rhys said he loved me, but was he in love with me—or was he just in love with the mission of saving me?