"Whatever devil's inside you, don't let him out tonight."

That's all you had requested (or, let's be real, begged) of Patrick for tonight. Just one night, a small dinner for your birthday, where all of your friends could meet your new beau. Sure, when you'd talked him up to them they didn't really believe you. And sure, when you finally gave in and told them his name they really didn't believe you. But that wasn't your fault... right?

"I'll do what I can, doll." He'd mumbled back with a lazy smirk, his eyes raking over you as you pulled on your outfit for the night. What he could. Not much, you guessed, by the sound of it. But nonetheless you found him on his knees before you, slipping your foot into your shoe and doing the buckle with a tenderness you knew was reserved for you. Only you.

"Promise."

You know you have good judgement. You know you have good taste! That's exactly why he was your boyfriend in the first place. Born into old money, already working for his father's company, penthouse on Park Avenue. All of that satisfied your parents. And you, you supposed. Not to mention, sweet as pie! But just to you. Really, only you.

And you imagine that's where your friends' judgement may have stemmed from. Patrick was no stranger to gossip rags and tabloid front pages, his reputation preceding him by miles. So, yeah, maybe you could see why you revealing you'd bagged Mr. Millionaire Playboy was a bit of a surprise. Of course, you were familiar with that side of Patrick. You'd seen it time and again whenever the two of you were anywhere public. Hence tonight's pleading.

You'd picked somewhere nice, him assuring you that price was no object, and invited all of your friends. You'd planned meticulously. So why did your stomach drop when you were escorted to the table filled with your fellow socialites, now all gawking up at the sight of you on Patrick Zweig's arm?

"Be good." Was all you could whisper out before taking your seats, his lips immediately cracking into a grin as he cleared his throat.