The climate control in the limousine was set to a temperature that felt arctic. Kalea suppressed a shiver, wrapping her arms around herself, trying to preserve what little body heat she had left.
Franco finally locked his phone and tossed it onto the leather seat between them. He turned to look at her, his eyes scanning her from head to toe with the critical detachment of an appraiser looking at a piece of furniture.
"That lipstick is too dark," he said. It wasn't a suggestion. "It makes you look severe."
Kalea's hand twitched toward her mouth, an instinctive reaction to apologize, to fix it. She stopped herself. "I'm pale," she said simply. "I needed the color."
"You look fine," Franco muttered, turning his gaze to the window. "Whatever. The hospital pickup was a detour I didn't need. Do you know how much the traffic sets us back?"
Kalea looked out the window. The city lights were blurring into streaks of neon as the car accelerated. The motion made her stomach churn again. She focused on the partition between them and the driver.
Franco reached for the crystal decanter in the built-in bar. As his cuff rode up, Kalea saw it.
On the inside of his wrist, just below the watch band, was a bruise. A small, purple-red mark. A hickey.
It was fresh.
Kalea stared at it. Her heart missed a beat, then slammed against her ribs. It wasn't heartbreak she felt. It was a wave of revulsion so strong she tasted bile. He hadn't even bothered to cover it. He didn't care enough to hide the evidence.
Franco caught her staring. He followed her gaze to his wrist. He didn't flinch. He didn't look guilty. He simply tugged his shirt cuff down, smoothing the expensive fabric over the mark.
He poured a glass of water from a plastic bottle and shoved it toward her. He poured himself a whiskey.
"Drink," he said. "You look dehydrated. I don't need you fainting on the red carpet."
Kalea took the glass. Her fingers brushed against his. His skin was warm, alive. Hers was cold as marble. She pulled her hand back as if she had been burned.
Franco let out a short, derisive laugh. "Still playing the shy virgin? It's a bit late for that act, isn't it?"
He took a sip of his whiskey, the amber liquid swirling in the glass. "The guest list is important tonight. The board members from the merger committee are all attending. I need you to be charming. Smile. Laugh at their boring jokes."
"Is everyone going to be there?" Kalea asked, her voice tight.
"Yes. Everyone who matters."
"Is Jennie Spence going to be there?"
The air in the car seemed to freeze. Franco paused, the glass halfway to his mouth. He looked at her, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"Jennie is my Executive Secretary," he said slowly, enunciating each word as if speaking to a slow child. "She is essential for networking. She knows the details of the merger better than anyone."
Kalea gripped the water glass. The condensation was cold against her palm. "Since when does an Executive Secretary attend a family birthday party for your fiancée's sister?"
"Since I decided she needed to be there to manage the press," Franco snapped. "Don't start, Kalea. You know how hard she works."
Kalea looked into his eyes, searching for a shred of decency. She found only arrogance. He truly believed he was in the right. He believed he was entitled to everything-the wife with the pedigree and the mistress with the ambition.
His phone lit up on the seat. A message notification.
Sender: J
Message: Missing you already. The backseat feels empty without us.
Franco glanced at it. The corner of his mouth quirked up. It was a smile Kalea hadn't seen directed at her in years. A smile of intimacy.
Kalea felt the vomit rising in her throat. She fumbled for the window control, pressing the button. The glass slid down an inch, letting in a blast of exhaust-filled city air. She inhaled deeply, desperate for anything that didn't smell like Jennie's perfume.
"What are you doing?" Franco barked. "Close that. You're ruining the climate control."
Kalea closed her eyes. She started counting backward from ten in her head. Ten. Nine. Eight. She pressed the button, sealing the window.
"Sorry," she whispered.
Franco shook his head, looking at her with open disdain. He saw a broken doll. A boring, sickly woman who was nothing more than a signature on a contract. He thought of Jennie-vibrant, eager, willing to do anything to please him.
The car slowed, turning onto the long, winding driveway of the Alexander estate. Through the tinted windows, the flash of cameras was already visible, a strobe-light effect that cut through the darkness.
Franco set his glass down. He adjusted his tie in the reflection of the window. He transformed. The sneer vanished, replaced by the charming, confident smile of New York's most eligible bachelor.
He extended his arm toward her. "Let's go. And fix your face, Kalea. You look miserable."
Kalea opened her eyes. The emotion was gone from them. They were flat, dark pools. She reached out and looped her arm through his. Her grip was mechanical.
The door opened. The noise of the crowd rushed in.
