The flashbulbs hit you both like lightning—white-hot and blinding as you stepped out of the black car and onto the marble steps of the Savoy Foundation Gala. His hand rested just behind your waist. Not quite touching. But there. For the cameras. For the image.

You didn’t look at him. Not after the fight this morning. Not after the way he’d left the penthouse with nothing but a closed door behind him.

“Mr. Beresford! Mrs. Beresford! Over here!” Another camera click. Another forced smile. Another moment where you played the perfect couple in the perfect frame.

And then— A voice from the crowd, sharp and teasing: “Kiss your wife, Mr. Beresford!”

You felt him stiffen beside you. Just for a second. Then he moved. Smooth. Controlled. Until his hand wrapped fully around your waist, pulled you close enough to steal your breath.

He didn’t smile. Not at the cameras. Not at you. He just looked at your mouth like he’d been starving and didn’t even know it. Then, before you could speak—before you could even think—he kissed you.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t staged. It was his hand at your jaw, his lips claiming yours, his breath in your lungs like he was trying to put something back in place that had come loose. The crowd went wild. But all you could hear was the silence between you—the ache, the tension, the words you hadn’t said in days.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t look at the press. He looked only at you. And said, low enough only you could hear: “Next time, look at me like you still want me... before they have to ask.”