Page 78 of Bride on the Dotted Line

The ballroom at the Aurora Grand is packed by the time we arrive. We walk up the polished staircase arm in arm, stepping under a floral archway and into the gala’s splendor. People gather in groups near the bar, talking and laughing in their nicest, shiniest clothes. There’s a live band this year—the musicians play a familiar-sounding song from a low stage to our right, obscured by swaying couples on the dance floor.

“Sienna! Nick!” a voice says, and we turn to see a restauranteur friend in a long, blue dress hurrying toward us. “I’m so glad to see you.”

“Hey, Jess,” I say, smiling. She gives both Sienna and I warm hugs. Jess’ fine dining restaurant opened six months ago down the street from Ember & Hearth. I haven’t seen her out of her chef’s coat in what feels like forever. “How have things been?”

“Oh, you know. Ups and downs. I was just telling Ashley that …”

The three of us exchange friendly updates, wandering toward the bar. Sienna orders a glass of wine, telling Jess all about the expansion we’re planning for Ember & Hearth.

“We’re looking at a second location with a brand-new menu,” she says. “Nick thinks we can deepen the connection our guests feel with the food if we put more emphasis on certain flavors.”

I watch her talk, attempting not to beam with pride and failing miserably. My wife is calm and confident, every inch the professional. This expansion is our brainchild, but she’s the one taking the lead. Watching her in her element is like a drug—I can’t stop craving it.

As we’re finishing our first drink, Jess excuses herself, only to be replaced by another couple wanting to talk about Ember & Hearth. Then another. And another.

“The flavors, the presentation—they were absolutely fantastic.”

“Every little detail was perfect.”

“People will be talking about the food for years.”

Sienna leans into me during each conversation, her soft presence my anchor. It’s hard to believe that only two years ago, I was walking into this same gala feeling like public enemy number one.

So much has changed.

“The food was extraordinary,” an older man wearing all white tells us. “I don’t think I’ve seen a concept that thorough in a while. You’ve really done it, Mr. Harwood.”

“Thank you,” I say, bowing my head. “I’m glad you liked it.”

When we’re alone again, Sienna and I exchange glances. She toasts me with her wine glass, mouth curving into a smile. “Looks like you aren’t the playboy scoundrel everyone thought you were, Mr. Harwood.”

I pull her close, bringing my lips to her temple. I can feel people’s eyes on us, her in that tight-fitting lace dress, me in my signature black suit. For once, the attention doesn’t bother me.

Let them look.

“I’m still a scoundrel,” I whisper into her ear. “I just hide it better.”

We order a second drink, wandering toward the dance floor. I spot a familiar face at the other side of the room: my father, standing in the corner with a tumbler of gin in his hand. He’s dressed in his usual dark suit, and despite his graying hair, he’s as imposing as ever.

Tension creeps into my shoulders.

Sienna notices, too. “Nick,” she says softly, following my gaze. “Is that your dad?”

“Yeah. He’s probably here to catch up with the shareholders.” Rumors have been swirling that Harwood Restaurant Group is struggling under its new leadership. I looked around for Roderick and Lionel as soon as we walked in, but they’re nowhere to be seen. Probably hiding from the press. “He wouldn’t come for any other reason.”

My wife watches him a moment, her expression thoughtful. “I don’t know. He’s been looking over here a lot. Maybe he’s trying to catch your eye.”

I scoff, the old bitterness rising in me. Victor and I have barely spoken since I refused my inheritance. He was certain I’d divorce Sienna and come back begging forgiveness, so he never bothered to call. All these years later, we’re thriving, and he’s still never admitted he was wrong. I don’t need his approval now any more than I did then.

But Sienna thinks differently. She gives me a knowing look. “I think you should go talk to him.”

“Why would I want to do that?” I reply too quickly.

“Well,” she says, “I can tell it would mean something to him. And even if he won’t say it, I think he’s proud of you.”

I exhale, a twinge of something I can’t identify in my chest. I don’t want to let my guard down, but Sienna has a way of making a conversation sound worth having. “Fine,” I mutter. “But if he starts with me, I’m out.”

She gives me a gentle nudge. “Go. I’ll be over by the champagne tower if you need rescuing.”

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