Chapter 215 - 214 Im Done Pretending
EMILY
The velvet theater seat feels less like luxury and more like a beautifully upholstered trap. I shift my weight, trying to find a comfortable angle that puts at least six inches of space between me and my unexpected date. Preston Pierce sits perfectly relaxed to my right. He smells strongly of bergamot and expensive cedar cologne. His dyed-blonde hair is styled with meticulous, messy precision, and he wears an avant-garde burgundy blazer that probably costs more than a luxury car. He looks like a catalog model posing in the wild. I just feel profoundly out of place.
On the brightly lit stage of the National Center for the Performing Arts, the dancers leap and spin through the first act of Swan Lake. The music swells from the orchestra pit below. Violins and cellos weave a heavy, tragic melody through the chilled air of the auditorium. It is a beautiful performance, yet my mind keeps drifting away from the stage and back to the empty, quiet rooms of the Wolfe estate.
Preston leans close. The movement brings a wave of that heavy cedar scent right under my nose. I press my shoulders firmly against the back of my seat.
"The principal dancer lacks a bit of technical grace in her grand jeté," Preston whispers. He points a manicured finger toward the stage. "Do you see the slight hesitation in her landing? It breaks the illusion of weightlessness."
I nod once, keeping my eyes fixed straight ahead. "She seems perfectly graceful to me."
"You are too forgiving, Emily." Preston turns his head, giving me a bright, polished smile. "Art requires a critical eye. But I suppose a brilliant medical mind like yours appreciates the mechanics of the human body more than the theatrical flair."
He is trying to be charming. I know he stepped in at the last minute because Jessica Hayes had an emergency, and I should be grateful for the company. Yet sitting here with a man I barely know feels entirely wrong. Every time he leans in to share an observation, the proximity makes my skin crawl with awkwardness. I fold my hands neatly in my lap and force a polite smile.
"I just enjoy the music, Preston." I reply quietly. "It is a nice distraction."
"We will have to find you better distractions," he says, his voice carrying a teasing lilt. He rests his elbow on the shared armrest, his sleeve brushing against my bare arm.
I pull my arm back instantly, resting my hands firmly in my lap. I focus on the ballerinas. The music reaches a sweeping crescendo, filling the vast room with frantic, beautiful sound. I count the seconds until the intermission, praying for a moment to breathe the unperfumed air in the lobby.
ALISTAIR
The heavy oak doors of the auditorium feel like a physical barrier, but I push them open. The thick carpet absorbs the sound of my footsteps as I step into the darkened back row of the theater. The music from the orchestra pit crashes through the room in a furious wave, but the sound barely registers. Warren Sinclair’s voice echoes in my ears instead. The memory of his teasing tone over a glass of wine a few hours ago refuses to fade. She went to the ballet. And she did not go alone.
I scan the rows of velvet seats. Hundreds of people sit enraptured by the stage. The dim lighting makes it difficult to distinguish faces, but I know what I am looking for. I spot her in the center section, five rows back.
Emily wears a deep emerald green dress. The fabric catches the faint stage light, highlighting the smooth, pale curve of her shoulders. Her hair is pinned up elegantly, exposing the delicate line of her neck. She looks breathtaking. And she is sitting entirely too close to Preston Pierce.
Preston leans into her space, whispering in her ear. He smiles. Emily turns her head slightly toward him, her profile illuminated by the stage lights. She nods, offering him a small, polite smile.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache. The muscles in my arms pull taut against the sleeves of my charcoal suit. Preston Pierce is a known playboy, a man who treats life and women as disposable entertainment. Watching him invade her space, watching her offer him even a fraction of her attention, ignites a possessive fury deep in my bones.
The orchestra strikes the final chord of the act. The heavy red curtains sweep closed across the stage. A second later, the grand crystal chandeliers above flare to life, bathing the auditorium in bright, warm light. The audience erupts into applause.
I do not applaud. I walk directly down the center aisle. People stand and begin to file out for the intermission, blocking my path, but they quickly step aside when they meet my eyes. I reach their row just as Preston stands up. He offers his hand to Emily.
She ignores his hand, standing up on her own and smoothing the skirt of her dress. Then she turns and freezes. Her eyes widen as she sees me standing at the edge of the aisle.
"Alistair," she says.
I step past a startled older couple and close the distance. I position myself smoothly between Emily and Preston.
"Mr. Pierce," I say. My tone is polite, precise, and completely devoid of warmth.
Preston blinks, his polished smile faltering for a fraction of a second before he recovers. He straightens his avant-garde blazer, looking me up and down. He knows exactly who I am. The Wolfe Empire holds enough leverage to dismantle his family’s trust funds before breakfast.
"Mr. Wolfe. This is an unexpected pleasure." Preston slides his hands into his pockets, trying to maintain a casual posture. "I was just keeping your lovely wife company for the evening. Jessica could not make it, you see."
"I am aware," I reply. "And her company is no longer required."
Preston chuckles, rocking back on his heels. He looks past my shoulder at Emily, then back to me. The amusement in his eyes is sharp and calculating. "Of course. Far be it from me to intrude on family time. But I must say, Alistair, she is an utterly fascinating woman. Truly a delight."
He says the words slowly, rolling them around to provoke a reaction. My hands curl into tight fists at my sides. The urge to physically remove him from the building is overwhelming, but I maintain my rigid posture.
"Have a good evening, Preston," I say, delivering the words like an eviction notice.
Preston raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Enjoy the second act, you two." He offers Emily a final, lingering look before turning and walking up the aisle, disappearing into the crowd of theatergoers.
I turn to Emily. She stands perfectly still, holding a small silver clutch purse with white-knuckled fingers.
"We are leaving," I say.
I place my hand on the small of her back. The warmth of her skin radiates through the thin silk of her dress. She does not argue. She simply nods and walks ahead of me toward the exit.
EMILY
The night air hits me like a physical force the moment we step out of the National Center for the Performing Arts. It is crisp and cold, carrying the metallic scent of impending rain and the heavy exhaust of idling luxury cars. Alistair guides me down the wide marble steps. His hand remains firmly pressed against the small of my back. The heat of his touch seeps through my emerald dress, grounding me while my mind races in a dozen different directions.
I glance at his profile. His jaw is locked tight. His dark eyes remain fixed on the street ahead. He looks furious, yet he opens the passenger door of his sleek black sedan with careful, controlled precision.
I slide into the plush leather seat. The interior smells of fresh leather and his distinct, crisp cologne. Alistair rounds the front of the car and gets into the driver’s seat. The engine rumbles to life, a deep, powerful vibration that shakes the floorboards. He pulls the car seamlessly away from the curb and merges into the thick Asuir City traffic.
We drive in complete silence for ten minutes. The glowing streetlights wash across his face in rhythmic intervals, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the severe line of his mouth. The silence is thick, pressing down on the air in the cabin.
I twist the silver clasp of my clutch purse. The metal digs into my thumb. I look out the window at the passing city skyline, then look back at him. I need to know.
"Why are you here, Alistair?" I ask. My voice sounds loud in the quiet car.
He keeps his eyes on the road. His hands grip the leather steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are completely white. He does not answer immediately. The car glides to a smooth stop at a red light.
He turns his head slowly. The mask of the untouchable CEO of the Wolfe Empire cracks. His eyes are dark, intense, and stripped of all their usual icy composure. He stares at me, examining my face as if searching for a specific answer.
"Warren told me you were here," he says. His voice is tight, rough around the edges. "He told me you were attending the ballet with another man."
"Preston is just a friend of Jessica’s," I reply, keeping my tone steady. "She had a family emergency. He offered to take her ticket so it would not go to waste. We were just sitting together."
"I saw how he was sitting with you, Emily." Alistair shifts his grip on the wheel. "He was leaning into your space. He was whispering to you. He was looking at you the way a man looks at something he intends to take."
I frown, genuinely confused by the sheer intensity of his reaction. "We have an agreement, Alistair. A contractual marriage. My presence at a public event with an acquaintance does not violate any terms of our arrangement. You have told me repeatedly to maintain my own life."
The traffic light turns green. He ignores it. A car behind us honks loudly, but Alistair does not look away from me.
"This has absolutely nothing to do with the contract," he says.
"Then what is this about?" I demand, my own frustration rising to match his intensity. "Why did you come all the way down there just to drag me out of a theater?"
Alistair lets out a short, harsh breath. He reaches across the center console. His large hand covers mine, stopping my fingers from twisting the clasp of my purse. His skin is remarkably warm. The contact sends a sudden, sharp jolt of electricity straight up my arm.
"I came because I was losing my mind sitting in my office," he admits. The rough edge in his voice deepens, vibrating with a raw honesty I have never heard from him before. "I came because the moment Warren said those words, I could not focus on anything else. I could not stand the thought of another man sitting beside you, trying to make you smile. I could not stand the thought of another man taking you out."
I sit completely frozen. The heavy rain begins to fall, tapping softly against the windshield, but all I can hear is the steady rhythm of his breathing. I stare at him, processing the monumental weight of his confession. The untouchable Alistair Wolfe is sitting in the middle of a busy intersection, holding my hand, telling me he is jealous.
He slowly intertwines his fingers with mine, tightening his grip. "I am done running away from this, Emily. I am done pretending."
The car behind us honks again, a long, blaring sound. Alistair finally looks back at the road and presses the accelerator, moving us forward into the rainy night. He does not let go of my hand. I look down at our intertwined fingers, leaning back into the leather seat, completely unsure of what happens next.