Page 13 of The Billionaire's Bargain

"Mine," I whisper into the darkness, a promise to us both. "Forever."

six

. . .

Alice

I tugat the hem of the borrowed designer gown, wondering for the hundredth time tonight if I'm fooling anyone. The ivory silk feels like a costume on my skin, the price tag still burned into my memory—more than three months of my rent. Alexander's hand rests at the small of my back, warm and steady, guiding me through the glittering crowd. His touch shouldn't feel this possessive already, but it does, and the worst part is how much I like it.

"Stop fidgeting," he murmurs close to my ear, his breath stirring the wisps of hair his stylist artfully arranged hours ago. "You look stunning."

I swallow hard, fighting the urge to look down at my feet. My entire body feels like it's vibrating with nerves, a tuning fork struck against the marble floor of this ballroom.

"Everyone can tell I don't belong here," I whisper back.

His fingers press more firmly against my spine. "You belong with me. That's all that matters."

The Grand Horizon Hotel ballroom has been transformed into something from a fairy tale—if fairy tales featured hedge fund managers and tech moguls in bespoke suits. Crystal chandeliers throw diamonds of light across the ceiling. Ice sculptures melt slowly on tables laden with food I can't pronounce. Women dripping in jewels eye me with thinly veiled curiosity.

"Mr. Grant!" A woman with a permanent smile approaches us, clipboard in hand. "So glad you could make it. Your usual table is ready."

"Thank you, Melissa." His voice is smooth as expensive scotch. He doesn't introduce me, and the woman doesn't ask.

As we navigate through the crowd, heads turn. I feel the weight of their stares—some curious, some dismissive, some outright hostile. The women, especially, track our progress with narrowed eyes. I wonder how many of them have been in my place before. How many have walked these floors on Alexander's arm, only to disappear when he lost interest.

The thought makes my stomach clench.

"Champagne?" He plucks two flutes from a passing waiter's tray.

"I probably shouldn't." My voice sounds small even to my own ears. "I need to keep a clear head."

One corner of his mouth lifts. "This isn't a test, Alice. It's a date."

The word 'date' sends a flush of heat across my skin. I take the champagne to give my hands something to do.

Alexander steers me toward a table near the front of the room, populated by men in dark suits and women in jewel-toned dresses. They all look up when we approach, conversation pausing.

"Alexander, you made it." A silver-haired man rises. "We were just placing bets on whether you'd show."

"James." Alexander shakes his hand. "You should know better than to bet against me."

"Indeed." James's eyes slide to me, curiosity evident. "And who might this lovely young lady be?"

"Alice Reynolds." Alexander's hand returns to the small of my back, fingers splayed possessively. "My date for the evening."

The simple declaration sends ripples around the table. I see raised eyebrows, exchanged glances.

He pulls out my chair, his fingers brushing the nape of my neck as I sit. The touch is brief but deliberate, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

I sip my champagne to hide my discomfort. The bubbles tickle my nose, but the alcohol does nothing to calm my nerves. I'm an imposter here, playing dress-up in clothes that cost more than my car.

Throughout dinner, Alexander keeps me close. His attention never wavers, even when engaged in conversation with others. He touches me constantly—a hand on mine, fingers brushing my arm, leaning in to whisper observations that make me laugh despite myself. Each touch is casual but deliberate, as if he's marking territory.

"Have you seen the auction items?" he asks during dessert. "There's a vacation package I think you'd enjoy."

"I don't think my budget extends to charity auctions," I say quietly.

His eyes darken. "Did I ask about your budget?"

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