Colette woke up with her face pressed against something warm and solid. She inhaled. Sandalwood and skin.
Her eyes flew open. She was draped over August like a starfish. Her leg was thrown over his hip, her arm across his chest.
She scrambled back, nearly falling off the bed.
August was awake. He was watching her, his eyes clear and amused.
"If you're done drooling on me," he said dryly, "we have a schedule."
Colette's face burned. She fled to the bathroom.
Breakfast was silent. August was back in CEO mode, reading the Financial Times.
"Charity auction today," he said, not looking up. "The Met. Be ready at noon. The styling team will be here in ten minutes."
The "styling team" was an army. They plucked, polished, and painted her. When they were done, Colette stared at the mirror. The woman looking back wore a silver gown that shimmered like liquid mercury. Her hair was swept up, revealing her neck. She looked expensive. She looked like she belonged.
August walked in. He stopped. His eyes swept over her, lingering for a fraction of a second on the curve of her neck.
"Adequate," he said. But his voice was a little rougher than usual.
The arrival at The Met was a war zone. Flashbulbs exploded like strobe lights. Reporters shouted questions.
"Mr. Sanders! Is it true?"
August didn't speak. He simply wrapped his arm around Colette's waist. His grip was firm, possessive. He pulled her flush against his side.
"Smile," he whispered in her ear. "You adore me."
Colette smiled. It felt brittle.
Inside, the room was filled with sharks in tuxedos. Colette felt the eyes on her. Assessing. Judging. Gold digger, they whispered. Who is she?
A woman in a red dress approached. She held a glass of red wine. Colette recognized her from the tabloids-Genevieve, a close friend of the Golden family.
"So," Genevieve sneered, "you're the little charity project August picked up from the gutter."
"Excuse me?" Colette said.
Genevieve "stumbled." The wine glass tipped.
Colette's reflexes, honed by years of catching falling paintbrushes, kicked in. She sidestepped smoothly.
The wine splashed onto Genevieve's own red dress, darkening the fabric instantly.
Genevieve gasped. "You clumsy bitch!"
The room went silent.
August turned around. He looked at Genevieve, then at Colette. He saw the dry silver dress. He saw the wine on Genevieve.
"Apologize," August said. His voice was quiet, but it carried across the room.
Genevieve smirked. "I'm waiting for her apology."
"To my wife," August clarified. He stepped closer to Genevieve, his height intimidating. "You just attempted to assault my wife with a beverage. Apologize. Or I pull my funding from your father's foundation tomorrow morning."
Genevieve went pale. "August, you can't be serious. She's nobody."
"She is Mrs. Sanders," August said. "And she is worth more than this entire room."
Genevieve looked down. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Sanders."
August turned to Colette. He took her hand. There was a tiny drop of wine on her knuckle. He pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and gently wiped it away.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, his eyes searching hers.
Colette looked at him. He was acting. She knew he was acting. But the way his thumb brushed her skin... it didn't feel like a lie.
"I'm fine," she whispered.
"Good." He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. "Let's go buy something expensive."
