Page 48 of Coldhearted King

Maybe I should have known my relationship with Paul was doomed. He’d never once bothered to share his appreciation for me the way Cole just did. Any time we went somewhere with amazing architecture, he was too busy lecturing me about his expert opinion to care about my response to it.

“Thank you.” I don’t know what else to say, so I force my gaze away from him and look at the people filling the vast room.

Cole was right. Everyone here is rich and powerful, and they’re not shy about showing it. Expensive suits and designer dresses, jewels dripping from necks, wrists, and ears, laughs that sound a little too loud, as if only uttered to draw attention. It’s completely different from anything I’m used to.

Cole leans down and whispers, “Stay by my side or you’ll have all the unmarried men trying to take you home tonight. Probably half of the married ones as well.” When I glance up at him, there’s no humor in his expression. “Let’s find our table.” He urges me forward, his large hand spanning the small of my back.

We weave our way through the crowd until Cole spots our designated table at the front of the room, and I wonder if the positioning is deliberate. Do the big billionaires sit at the front and the little billionaires get relegated to the back?

I stifle a laugh, then quickly straighten my face when Cole glances at me with a raised brow.

He pulls out my seat and I try to sink into it as gracefully as possible. Then he sits next to me.

A server materializes by our side. “Can I get you something to drink this evening?”

Cole turns to me. “Would you like champagne or something else?”

Champagne would be nice, but the bubbles are bound to go to my head, and I need to keep my senses about me tonight. “I’ll have a glass of white wine, thank you.”

Cole orders two glasses of white and the server rushes off, dodging and weaving his way through the crowd. He’s soon back with our glasses, and I thank him with a grateful smile, getting a grin and a wink in response. Cole mutters something under his breath and casually rests his arm along the back of my chair.

We’re soon joined at the table by some other couples, mostly older than Cole and me. They greet him familiarly, and Cole introduces me as his colleague, which isn’t really true. He probably says it to ensure people don’t think I’m his date, or God forbid, his girlfriend.

The final couple joins the table, and although there’s no obvious physical reaction from Cole, I swear tension seems to roll off him as they sit opposite us. His greeting seems pleasant enough, however, as he nods in their direction. “Jessica, Tom.”

The couple seems about Cole’s age. The blandly good-looking man reminds me of a Ken doll, and the woman is a complete knockout. She’s blonde, tall, and curvy, and her black dress shows off every single one of those curves. Her pale blue eyes fix on Cole.

“I wasn’t sure you were coming tonight,” she says to him. “You usually let me know.”

“Roman originally accepted the invitation, but he has other business to attend to.”

He doesn’t say anything about why he didn’t let her know he was coming. And what does that mean, anyway? Surely she’s not his girlfriend, considering they’re both here with other people.

I look at Cole, but he keeps his attention fixed on Jessica.

She shifts in her chair, her gaze briefly flicking to me. “Who’s your date tonight?”

“This is Delilah. She’s an architect working on the new hotel chain. I brought her to look at the Chicago site.”

I smile at Jessica, and although she smiles back, it’s brittle around the edges.

“How convenient,” she murmurs.

We’re spared further conversation with Jessica and her date when the emcee takes to the stage to talk about the schedule for tonight, which includes numerous courses of food and a lot of mingling, followed by the silent auction and then dancing. A casual Friday night for billionaires.

Once everyone is seated, the first course is brought out. It’s caviar, artfully dolloped on some fancy-looking lettuce leaves. I try it because I’ve never had it before, then do my best not to screw up my nose. I quietly panic. Is it considered rude if I don’t eat it?

Cole’s thigh presses against mine as he murmurs in my ear, “Don’t eat it if you don’t like it. It’s an acquired taste.”

“Let me guess.” I tilt my face up to his. “You’ve acquired it?”

He shrugs. “I wasn’t given much of a choice when I was a child.”

I look down at the pile of shiny black fish eggs. “I can’t believe your parents gave this to you as a kid. I used to kick up a fuss when Mom made me eat my beans.”

The corners of his mouth turn up. “My brothers and I were expected to gain an appreciation for the finer things in life early on, whether we wanted to or not.”

I try to picture Cole as a child, forcing down caviar at the dinner table because it was expected. A pang of sadness hits me. I don’t know anything about his upbringing, so I’m probably making a huge assumption, but somehow it doesn’t seem like the act of loving parents. I touch his arm. “I’m sorry. That doesn’t sound very nice.”

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