Page 108 of When Hearts Collide

“Yes, thank God. I said hello to the folks Adrian wanted me to touch base with, Steven.”

I turn to my friend and bonus brother, who looks dapper in his black suit molded over his tall figure.

“I don’t think I’m cut out for the business world. I don’t know how you do this all the time. My cheeks are about to fall off from all the fake smiling.”

He laughs, his hazel eyes twinkling as he surveys the winter wonderland before us, his gaze no doubt sweeping for the love of his life.

“You get used to it. Plus, once you’re powerful enough, you don’t need to go to them. They come to you.”

“It’s still exhausting. I’m ready to call it a night and the dancing hasn’t even started yet.”

Steven furrows his brows. “You feeling better, Millie? Are the meds helping?”

I flash him a tentative smile. The pain in my belly has lessened after taking two extra strength ibuprofen, but the occasional lash of pain, which breaks through all medication, still threatens to rob me of my breath.

“I-I’m fine. Thanks. I’ll probably stay for another hour and head out.”

“Don’t over-exert yourself. Adrian won’t want that for you.”

I nod. “I won’t. Don’t worry.”

Plus, I haven’t seen him yet.

And I can’t leave without seeing him, my dark prince reigning over his realm.

“I see Grace over there. I’m going to whisk her away for the first dance,” Steven says softly and my heart warms at the happiness shining on his face.

He was a workaholic in the past, the cold King of Wall Street, as the press nicknamed him, like he was walking around with a half-functioning heart. But ever since he’s been with my friend, he has come alive, like he finally knows his purpose in life.

“You look lovely tonight, Millie…and Merry Christmas.” Steven gives my arm another squeeze as the orchestra strikes up a light melody.

I murmur my thanks, but his attentions have already turned toward Grace, who’s clad in a curve-hugging black silk dress with delicate spaghetti straps, her eyes dancing with so much love inside them as she smiles at her fiancé.

A twisting sensation hits my chest as I watch the king whisking off his queen to the throng of dancers twirling on the dance floor. The faux snow spins in the air around them as they join the fray. Grace throws her head back in laughter at something Steven says while he looks at her with utter adoration in his eyes.

To be dancing with the person you love in public, the wistful thought slips into my mind.

My hands smooth over my baby blue tulle gown, which is a gorgeous confection of the McKenzie brand with its wide, off the shoulder neckline adorned with crystals, the bodice cinched at the waist, and a long, flowy skirt with a thigh high split. The sleeves are sheer and delicate, adding an element of whimsical to the ensemble.

Grace helped me with my hair today, expertly curling the thick strands before pinning a simple crystal hairpin resembling a feather on one side of my head. My makeup is a simple sweeping eyeliner and ruby red lips.

I feel like a princess today…a woman who should be standing by his side, the magnificent prince the public loves.

Just then, a sudden hush descends over the room, and everyone glances toward the double doors, with me following suit.

My lungs seize when I see the unmistakable silhouette of Ryland striding into the ballroom with his siblings behind him. They are a striking group—all elegant lines and sharp features—each one of them can grace the covers of fashion magazines.

His deep navy tux with black lapels clings to his muscular frame, his dark hair artfully swept back, his slate-gray eyes glittering with confidence and power, and his lips are tilted up in a small smile, like he knows a secret we aren’t privy to.

The face of the Andersons. The Prince of the USA.

And I’m nothing but his dirty little secret.

Ryland strides inside, nodding to a few folks he clearly recognizes, passing by several ladies who look like they’re about to swoon. He stops along the way and shakes their hands, murmuring a few words before moving on, addressing his subjects who are clearly paying tribute to him.

I stay frozen in place, the ache in my abdomen simmering in the background and my fingers twist in front of my dress.

Should I greet him? Say hello? Or pretend I don’t know him? What is the protocol of addressing the much-older professor you’re carrying on an affair with?

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