The invitation arrived on cream-colored paper with gold embossing.
The Thorne Foundation for Foster Youth requests the pleasure of your company at its annual gala. Black tie. Eight o'clock. The Four Seasons, Seattle.
Sloane had read it seven times. Not because she was nervous. Because she was terrified.
A room full of billionaires. Reporters. Cameras. And she'd be on Cole Thorne's arm, wearing a dress she couldn't afford, pretending to be a woman she wasn't.
"I can't do this," she said for the tenth time.
Jade stood behind her in the tiny bathroom of the bakery apartment, wielding a curling iron like a weapon. "You can. You will. And you'll look so hot that every woman there will want to kill you and every man will want to be Cole."
"That's not helping."
"It's the truth." Jade finished a curl and stepped back. "Okay. Open your eyes."
Sloane opened her eyes.
The woman in the mirror was not Sloane Bennett.
Her hair fell in soft waves down her back, dark brown with hints of auburn catching the light. Jade had done her makeup with a heavy hand – smoky eyes, sharp winged liner, lips the color of crushed berries. Her skin glowed. Her cheekbones looked carved.
And the dress.
The dress was a column of crimson red, silk that poured over her curves like liquid fire. It was sleeveless, with a neckline that dipped just low enough to be dangerous but not scandalous. A slit ran up her left thigh, revealing a flash of brown skin with every step. Jade had found it at a consignment shop for forty dollars. It looked like it cost four thousand.
"You look like a woman who could bring a billionaire to his knees," Jade said.
"I look like a woman who's about to trip and fall on her face."
"You'll be fine. Just remember – you're not pretending to be his fiancée. You're pretending to be better than his fiancée. You're the woman he doesn't deserve."
Sloane took a deep breath. Then another.
Her phone buzzed.
Cole: I'm outside.
She walked down the stairs in her heels – nude stilettos that Jade had loaned her, two sizes too big but the only pair they had – and opened the bakery door.
Cole stood on the sidewalk.
He was wearing a tuxedo. Black on black, perfectly tailored, with a crimson pocket square that matched her dress. His hair was styled back from his face. His jaw was clean-shaven. And he was holding a single red rose.
He didn't speak.
He just looked at her.
His eyes traveled from her face to her dress to the slit in the fabric to her heels and back up again. His throat moved. His hands tightened on the rose.
"Sloane," he said finally. His voice was rough.
"Yes?"
"You're going to make this very difficult."
"Difficult how?"
"Difficult because I'm supposed to be pretending. But when you look like that..." He stepped closer and tucked the rose behind her ear. His fingers brushed her neck. "Pretending is going to be impossible."
Sloane's heart hammered. "Then don't pretend."
"I have to."
"No, you have to protect your company. That's different."
Cole's jaw flexed. He offered his arm. "Shall we?"
She took it. His bicep was solid under her palm. "We shall."
---
The Four Seasons ballroom was a sea of black and white and diamonds.
Chandeliers dripped from the ceiling like frozen waterfalls. Tables draped in ivory linen held centerpieces of white orchids and candles. A string quartet played something classical and expensive-sounding. And everywhere Sloane looked, there were faces she recognized from magazine covers.
Tech billionaires. Real estate moguls. A movie star she'd had a crush on in college. The mayor of Seattle. And every single one of them turned to look when Cole walked in.
At her.
The whispers started immediately.
"Who is that?"
"Is that the new fiancée?"
"I heard she's a baker. A baker! Can you imagine?"
"She's not his type. He usually goes for models."
"Look at that dress. Desperate, don't you think?"
Sloane kept her chin high and her shoulders back. She'd survived mean girls in high school. She'd survived customers who complained that her croissants weren't "authentic enough." She could survive a room full of rich women who had nothing better to do than tear each other down.
Cole leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. "Ignore them."
"I am."
"They're jealous."
"I know."
"Of you." His hand settled on her lower back, low enough to make her breath catch. "Because you're the most beautiful woman in this room. And you're with me."
Sloane turned her head. His face was inches from hers. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"Is it working?"
She smiled despite herself. "Maybe a little."
They made their way through the crowd. Cole introduced her to people whose names she forgot immediately – a blur of firm handshakes, polite smiles, and eyes that assessed her like she was a business deal.
Then they reached the bar.
A woman was already there. Tall. Blonde. Thin in a way that looked expensive. Her dress was silver and backless and probably cost more than Sloane's entire bakery. Her smile was sharp.
"Cole." The woman's voice dripped honey and venom. "I heard you were engaged. I didn't believe it."
"Victoria." Cole's tone was ice. "This is Sloane Bennett. My fiancée."
Victoria's gaze slid to Sloane. It lingered on her dress. On her curves. On her face.
"A baker," Victoria said. "How... rustic."
Sloane smiled sweetly. "And you are?"
"Victoria Ashford. Cole and I have history."
"Do you?" Sloane looked at Cole. "You didn't mention her."
"Because there's nothing to mention." Cole's hand tightened on Sloane's waist. "Victoria and I went on one date. Two years ago. She spent the entire time asking about my net worth."
Victoria's smile didn't waver. "A girl has to be practical."
"A girl has to be interesting," Sloane countered. "Otherwise, she's just a pretty face with a calculator."
The air went cold.
Victoria's eyes narrowed. "You think you're different?"
"I know I am." Sloane stepped closer to Cole, pressing her body against his side. "I bake his bread. I know his coffee order. I've seen him without his armor." She tilted her head. "Can you say the same?"
Victoria's smile finally cracked. She looked at Cole – really looked at him – and something flickered in her eyes. Jealousy? Regret? Sloane didn't care.
"Enjoy your evening," Victoria said stiffly. Then she walked away, her silver dress swishing like a snake's tail.
Cole turned to Sloane. His eyes were blazing.
"What?" she asked.
"That was..." He shook his head. "That was incredible."
"She was rude."
"She was trying to hurt you. And you didn't flinch."
Sloane shrugged. "I told you. I'm good at performing."
"You're not performing." Cole cupped her face in his hands. His thumbs traced her cheekbones. "You're being. And I can't look away."
The string quartet shifted into a slow song. Couples moved toward the dance floor.
"Dance with me," Cole said.
"I don't know how to slow dance."
"I'll teach you."
He led her to the center of the floor. His hand found her waist. Her hand found his shoulder. His other hand held hers, fingers intertwined.
They moved slowly. His body guided hers. The music wrapped around them like silk.
"You're staring again," Sloane whispered.
"I can't help it."
"You're going to make people talk."
"Let them talk." He pulled her closer. Her chest pressed against his. Her thigh brushed his through the slit in her dress. "I don't care what they think."
"Cole—"
"I only care what you think." His voice dropped. "And right now, I think you're the most dangerous woman I've ever met."
"Dangerous how?"
"Because you make me want things I told myself I didn't deserve."
Sloane's eyes burned. "You deserve everything."
"I don't."
"You do."
He stopped dancing. The music continued around them, but they were frozen in place, staring at each other like the rest of the world had disappeared.
"Come with me," he said.
"Where?"
"Away from here."
He took her hand and led her off the dance floor, through a side door, into a private hallway. The noise of the gala faded. The lights were dim. They were alone.
Cole pressed her against the wall.
His body caged hers. His hands framed her face. His breath was hot on her lips.
"I want to kiss you," he said. "But if I start, I won't stop."
"Then don't stop."
He kissed her.
It wasn't slow this time. It wasn't gentle. It was desperate – the kind of kiss that said I've been starving and you're the first meal I've had in years.
His hands slid down her body. Her back arched. Her fingers tangled in his hair. He tasted like whiskey and want and everything she'd been pretending not to feel.
He pulled back just long enough to breathe her name: "Sloane."
"Cole."
"We shouldn't—"
"Shut up."
She kissed him again. Harder. Her leg wrapped around his hip. His hand gripped her bare thigh where the slit in her dress had fallen open.
He groaned against her mouth.
"Not here," he said roughly. "Not like this. You deserve better than a hallway."
"I don't care about better. I care about you."
He rested his forehead against hers. Both of them were breathing hard. Both of them were trembling.
"If we go home together tonight," he said, "I won't be able to pretend tomorrow. The contract—"
"Forget the contract."
"I can't. If I lose the company, I lose everything. I lose the foundation. The foster kids. The work I've been doing for years."
Sloane's heart cracked. "So what are you saying?"
"I'm saying I want you. More than I've ever wanted anything. But I need time. To figure out how to have you and keep the rest."
She looked into his eyes. The whiskey color was dark with desire. But underneath it, she saw fear. Real fear.
He's scared of losing control, she realized. Not of me. Of himself.
"Okay," she said softly.
"Okay?"
"Okay, we wait. We do this the way you need to do it." She touched his face. "But Cole?"
"Yeah?"
"When you're ready – when you finally let yourself have me – I'm going to make you forget every reason you said no."
He closed his eyes. His whole body shuddered.
"You're going to destroy me," he whispered.
"No," she said. "I'm going to save you. There's a difference."
---
They returned to the gala an hour later. Her lipstick was smudged. His hair was disheveled. Everyone knew what they'd been doing.
Sloane didn't care.
She walked through the crowd with her head high, her hand in Cole's, her heart full of something that felt terrifyingly like hope.
Victoria watched from across the room, her silver dress glittering, her eyes full of poison.
But Sloane didn't see her.
She only saw Cole.
And for the first time since her Nana died, she thought maybe – just maybe – she deserved to be happy.