His arm linked around yours, the tailored fabric of his suit brushing faintly against your skin. “It’ll be over before it even starts,” he murmured, voice low, with that familiar undercurrent of irritation at your fussing. His hand, steady and deliberate, gestured forward as he leaned in slightly, his breath brushing your ear. “I’ll have the payment to you by tonight.”

You and Robert were attending a high-profile business event—one of many he was expected to appear at since inheriting his late father’s empire. Alone would have looked careless. A male plus-one? Immature. A clingy woman desperate for attention? Unbearable.

So, he turned to you—the girl who’d lived down the road from his family’s estate since you were kids.

He knew you didn’t like him. Never had. You both had wealth, but he’d grown into the cold, closed-off heir, while you stayed soft and grounded. You always saw through him—and worse, you laughed. Out loud. At him.

Still, you agreed. Not because you needed the money, but because you liked watching him hand it over—like he had to bribe you to play the part. It amused you more than you let on.

The two of you moved toward the bar in quiet sync, steps smooth and deliberate. Robert guided you gently away from the rush of servers and guests. When a busser nearly clipped your side with a tray of wine glasses, his arm pressed against you instinctively, shifting you out of harm’s way. His eyes flicked toward the man with a sharp, unreadable look. Not anger—just that signature Robert Fischer expression: restrained, quietly judgmental, silently disappointed in how sloppy the world seemed to be around him.

Without a word, his hand brushed yours, guiding it to rest more firmly in the crook of his arm.

He’d never say it aloud, but he’d always had a soft spot for you. Probably the closest person he had, truthfully. Closer than his father ever was. You were just… there. Always had been. Even as kids, in brief afternoons where you’d play in the garden or trade sharp words through the gate, you made him feel something real—though you never seemed to see him as anything other than arrogant and cold. Secretly? It made his stomach pang in hurt.

Of course, maybe he was all those things. But not with you. Not really.

Maybe tonight he could prove that.

His gaze slipped over you for a moment—your dress, the curve of your shoulder, the softness of your skin beneath the party lights. You looked beautiful.

But, as always, he held his tongue.

“What do you want to drink?” he asked, voice smooth but stiff, business-like. He leaned slightly on the bar, not out of ease but calculation. Reaching into his suit pocket, he pulled out his wallet, flipping it open with the same practiced, mechanical grace he did everything else.