Page 94 of Bid For Me
And when I pull back, I see it. The faintest pink dusting her cheeks. She felt it too.
I keep my gaze locked on hers, searching for what I can’t say aloud.What happened, Elle?
Her expression stays composed, but her eyes – those stormy eyes – betray her.
As we turn to face the crowd, her hand still tucked in mine, the room erupts into applause. I smile for the cameras, for the spectacle we’ve created, but my thumb traces the edge of her palm – a silent message just for her.
Then I see my father’s satisfied smile again and the knot in my gut tightens. The hair on the back of my neck prickles.
My father doesn’t do happiness. Not like this. He smiles for cameras, grins when closing deals, wears pride like a mask – but this is different. His shoulders are loose, his mouth curved in something that isn’t practiced or forced. It’s unsettling.
Because my father’s happiness always comes at a price.
I know it like I know the weight of his expectations. My father is never pleased unless he’s gained something – something that costs someone else dearly.
I glance at Elle again. The flush on her cheeks has faded. Her lips are pressed too tightly together, and the pendant at her throat moves with the shallow rise and fall of her breath.
The suspicion gnaws at me, burning behind my ribs. What does he know? What did hedo?
I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ll find out. About Elle. About my father. About all of it.
Because right now, there’s a girl in pink sapphire forget-me-nots standing next to me, and I’ll be damned if I let anyone – including myself – ruin this. She isn’t just part of some plan. She’smine.
And no one – not even my father – gets to break her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Elle
The kiss still lingers,a phantom sensation that refuses to leave. It’s careful, barely more than a brush, soft and measured, but it was enough. Enough to start something – something I don’t have the words for yet. The warmth of it spreads like a wildfire through my chest. My pulse flutters in my throat as Seb pulls back, his face close enough that I can still see the faint shadows of stubble along his jaw. His eyes stay locked on mine – dark and dangerous like a stormy sea, too focused, too knowing.
I fight the urge to step back. To put space between us. To run.
The applause swells behind us, and I blink, startled back into the performance. The crowd stands. Smiles. Claps politely in a way that feels rehearsed and hollow. I tighten my grip on Seb’s hand as he turns us to face them, a smile plastered on his face, that I don’t believe for a second.
Their applause thunders through the church like a tidal wave. My smile stays plastered in place, but every muscle in my body screams to run. To pull my hand free. To shove off this heavy veil of expectation and disappear.
I can feel the photographers already snapping away – shutter clicks blending into the clapping like a drumbeat. My skin prickles under their attention, a thousand unseen eyes dissecting this moment that doesn’t even feel like mine.
It isn’t.
Neither of us says anything. We don’t need to. We both know we’re on display. Pawns in a perfectly orchestrated tableau of wealth and power and legacy.
And god, I hate it.
The moment we step out of the spotlight, a photographer steps forward, his camera shutter snapping in quick succession. “One more, Mr. and Mrs. Sterling-Knight,” he urges.
Seb shifts closer, his arm sliding around my waist. His palm rests lightly on my hip, fingers grazing silk and skin through the thin fabric of my dress. I force a smile, tilting my head toward him, in a way that feels natural but isn’t.
I don’t let myself look at him. I can’t. Not when my mind is still spinning witheverything.
The weight of the vows. The way his thumb brushed mine when he spoke. The damn pendant at my throat that feels heavier now than it did this morning. The prenup has turned it into a noose around my neck. I should have left it in the box.
But I didn’t.
“Perfect,” the photographer announces with an exaggerated grin, finally lowering the camera.
Perfect.