Chapter 28 TWENTY-EIGHT
The dress arrived at three in the afternoon with a handwritten note from Patricia: Wear this tonight. Trust me.
Lennox lifted the emerald silk from layers of tissue paper and almost laughed. Of course Patricia would pick something like this. The neckline plunged just enough to be interesting without crossing into scandalous, and the fabric clung in ways that left very little to imagination. Elegant, expensive, and definitely not something she'd have chosen for herself.
She tried it on anyway because arguing with Patricia about wardrobe choices was a battle she'd learned not to fight.
It fit perfectly. Obviously.
By seven, she was ready, makeup done by someone Patricia had sent over, hair swept up in a way that showed off her neck and shoulders. She looked at herself in the mirror and barely recognized the woman staring back.
Callum knocked once before opening her bedroom door. "Car's here in ten…"
He stopped mid-sentence.
His eyes went dark, that cold mask slipping just for a second as his gaze traveled from her face down the dress and back up again. Something flickered in his expression, something heated and hungry that made her stomach flip.
Then it was gone. He cleared his throat, adjusting his cufflinks like nothing happened. "You look presentable."
Presentable. Right.
"Thanks," she said, grabbing her clutch. "You too."
He did look good though. Black tux, crisp white shirt, hair styled back in that way that made him look older and unreachable. Like someone who belonged in magazines, not standing in her doorway looking at her like… like whatever that was.
The car ride was silent. Marcus drove while Callum answered emails on his phone, his jaw tight. Lennox stared out the window at the city lights and tried not to think about how his hand had flexed when he'd seen her, or how her pulse was still doing that annoying thing.
The gallery was located in Chelsea, featuring all-glass walls and modern lighting. Paparazzi lined the entrance, cameras flashing as guests arrived. Lennox had been to events with Callum before but this felt different. Bigger. More exposed somehow.
"Ready?" he asked as Marcus opened the door.
"Do I have a choice?"
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "No."
The cameras went crazy the second they stepped out. Callum's hand found her waist immediately, warm and steady through the thin silk. She leaned into him slightly, playing her part, smiling like this was natural.
"Mr. Westbrook! Over here!"
"Lennox! Look this way!"
"Can we get a kiss?"
They paused at the entrance, Callum's grip tightening slightly. The request hung in the air, expectation from dozens of photographers waiting for something romantic, something sellable.
Lennox glanced up at him, uncertain. They'd kissed for photos at the wedding but that felt scripted, expected. This was different somehow. More intimate despite the crowd.
His eyes met hers, unreadable. Then his hand moved to her jaw, tilting her face up, and he kissed her.
Not a quick peck. A real kiss. Deep and thorough, his tongue sliding against hers in a way that made her forget they were standing in front of fifty cameras. Her hand came up to his chest, fingers curling into his jacket as she kissed him back without thinking.
The cameras went insane. Flashes everywhere, voices shouting encouragement.
She pulled back first, breathless and disoriented. His hand lingered on her face for a second longer than necessary before dropping away.
They didn't look at each other as they walked inside.
The gallery was packed. Manhattan's elite wandering between massive paintings, champagne glasses in hand, conversations flowing in that carefully modulated way rich people talked at events like this. Patricia spotted them immediately, gliding over in head-to-toe Chanel.
"You both look stunning," she said, kissing Lennox's cheek. "Everyone's already asking about you. Play nice, mingle, and for god's sake, smile more."
The next hour blurred together. Introductions to people whose names Lennox forgot immediately. Small talk about business stuff she didn't understand. Callum's hand stayed on her waist the entire time, possessive and warm, even though they barely spoke to each other. Just moved through the crowd like synchronized dancers who'd rehearsed this routine a hundred times.
She excused herself to the restroom around nine, needing a break from the constant performance. When she came back, she found herself standing in front of a massive Rothko painting, all deep reds and blacks that seemed to pull you in if you stared long enough.
"Heavy, isn't it?"
She turned. A man stood beside her, maybe early thirties, with an easy smile and warm brown eyes. Attractive in an approachable way that felt refreshing after hours of cold Manhattan sophistication.
"The painting or the evening?" she asked.
He laughed. "Both, probably. Isaiah Holt. I'm the dealer who brought this piece in."
"Lennox Westbrook."
"I know." His smile widened. "You're the mysterious woman who married into the Westbrook empire and made every gossip column lose their minds."
"That's me. Mystery personified."
"Do you actually like Rothko or were you just hiding from the crowd?"
She glanced back at the painting. "Honestly? Bit of both. I don't really understand abstract art but this one... I don't know. It feels sad."
"Most people see anger in Rothko's work. You see sadness. That's interesting."
"Or I'm just projecting."
He laughed again, genuine and unguarded. "Well, if you want to project, this is the place for it. Half the people here are pretending to understand what they're looking at."
They talked for a while about the paintings, about art in general, about how exhausting these events were. Isaiah was funny and self-deprecating, making observations about the guests that had her actually laughing for the first time in days. Not the polite laugh she'd perfected for Patricia's friends, but real laughter that felt good in her chest.
"So what does a mysterious billionaire's wife do with her time?" Isaiah asked. "Besides attend gallery openings and look stunning?"
"I… mostly teach computer skills to middle schoolers in Brooklyn."
His eyebrows rose. "Really? That's... not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Shopping? Charity lunches? The usual trophy wife stuff."
"Not really my style."
"Clearly." He gestured to the Rothko. "Most trophy wives wouldn't admit they don't understand abstract art. They'd just fake it and move on."
"Maybe I'm bad at being a trophy wife."
"Or maybe you're just honest. Which is rarer."
Something shifted behind her. A presence she felt before she saw. Callum appeared at her elbow, his hand sliding around her waist in a grip that was definitely more possessive than necessary.
"Darling," he said, voice cold and clipped. "We need to mingle."
His touch burned through the thin silk of her dress, hot and demanding in a way that made her breath catch.
Isaiah's easy smile faltered slightly as he looked between them. "Isaiah Holt," he said, offering his hand. "I was just telling your wife about the Rothko."
Callum's handshake was brief, professional, and completely devoid of warmth. "Interesting. We really should keep moving though."
It wasn't a suggestion.
"Of course." Isaiah stepped back. "Nice meeting you, Lennox."
"You too."
Callum steered her away before she could say anything else, his hand still tight on her waist, fingers pressing into her hip like a brand. They wove through the crowd in silence, his jaw set in that way that meant he was pissed about something.
"That was rude," she said quietly.
"We're here to network with investors, not art dealers."
"We were just talking."
"I could see that."
His voice had an edge she didn't understand. They stopped in front of another painting, some abstract thing with harsh lines and bright colors. Neither of them looked at it.
"Are you mad at me?" she asked.
"No."
"You seem mad."
"I'm not." His hand stayed on her waist, burning through silk and skin. "We really should mingle."
But he didn't move. Just stood there, tense and coiled like something about to snap, his touch possessive in a way that made her heart race and her thoughts scatter.
Whatever was happening here, it definitely wasn't part of the contract.