Page 101 of Broken on the Mountain
Everyone here is beautiful. But it's the kind of beauty that requires personal trainers, dermatologists, and stylists on speed dial.
Somehow, I fit right in.
At least that's what Mom said when she found me in the hotel suite two hours ago, staring at my reflection in the Valentino gownshechose for me.
"See? When you try, darling, you can be so elegant."
The dressisobjectively stunning. Smooth silk that clings to my figure before cascading to the floor in a waterfall of fabric that pools around my feet.
The neckline dips just low enough to be sophisticated without crossing into scandalous territory—though the way it skims the curve of my collarbones feels like it'sflirtingwith the line. My hair's swept into an elaborate updo that took Eduardo forty-five minutes and approximately seventeen bobby pins stabbing into my scalp to achieve.
My makeup is flawless. Smoky eyes, nude lips, the kind of contouring that makes my cheekbones look like they could cut glass.
And lastly, diamond studs—Pemberton family heirlooms gifted to me earlier—glint at my ears.
I look like the perfect Whitman daughter.
But what Mother doesn't know, whatno oneknows… is that beneath all this silk and sophistication, I'm wearing hiking boots.
The ones Chase bought me at Linda's General Store. The ones with broken-in leather that I'm damn proud of, smelling like mountain air and dirt.
Monique didn't hem the dress.
When I went back to the boutique on Thursday, she handed me the garment bag with a smile and a whispered"The boots will fit perfectly."
The gown's so long that the fabric completely hides my feet. To everyone else, it looks like I'm wearing the heels Mom selected.
But with every step across this marble floor, I feel the grip of the boots. The weight of them. The reminder that somewhere a short plane ride away, there's a tavern with sticky floors and terrible karaoke where people laugh because they want to, not because it's polite.
Where a man with sandy brown hair and hazel eyes probably isn't thinking about me at all anymore.
Because I chose this.
"Darling, I must say again, you look absolutely radiant."
Maxwell Pemberton appears at my elbow like a well-dressed ghost. His tuxedo is custom-tailored, his shoes polished to a mirror shine, his cologne expensive enough that I can taste the citrus notes in it.
He is… objectively handsome. Even if I hate to admit it.
He's tall enough that I have to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes, with dark hair that's been styled nicely. Silver threads at his temples like expensive tinsel, adding just enough distinction to suggest he's seasoned without being old.
His strong jawline has all the right angles to create masculine perfection, and when he smiles, his teeth are so flawlessly white they gleam like he's picked me up after starring in a dental commercial.
Maxwell is everything my parents ever wanted for me.
But to me… he's everything that makes my skin crawl.
"Thank you, Maxwell." I manage a smile that probably looks genuine to anyone who doesn't know me.
He offers his arm. "Shall we? Your mother mentioned you'd do me the honor of giving me your first dance."
I link my arm through his because refusing would cause a scene, and Whitmans don't cause scenes.
We glide into the middle of the ballroom, and I feel the weight of a hundred studying gazes.
"You've been missed at the club," Maxwell says smoothly. "Mother mentioned you've been traveling?"
"I have. Visiting a friend."
