I Was Finished （Lila's POV）

My feet were nailed to the floor. I closed my eyes and braced myself — for his denial, for the room to erupt in laughter sharper than anything I'd already heard, for the night to end with me becoming the most ridiculous story in New York's financial circles.

But he didn't deny it.

Adrian Cyrus Lowell — the man rumored to avoid unnecessary social contact so thoroughly that he supposedly found even handshakes an imposition — moved his jaw. The gesture was barely perceptible, but it was there.

The silver-haired host beside him caught it first. He looked at Adrian, then at me, and a knowing, slightly mischievous grin broke across his face. His voice boomed through the entire private room: "Adrian! I've been wondering what could possibly drag you to New York — and here you are, visiting your girlfriend!"

He stretched the word out with unmistakable relish. The room responded with a long, rolling wave of "Ohhhh."

And I wanted to disappear into the floor.

I didn't understand why he hadn't corrected it. I had no idea what was going through his head. My brain had already hit capacity — completely unable to process the absurdity of what was unfolding in front of me.

The way he looked at me reminded me of a cat that had discovered a mouse that had wandered into the wrong room. It was deciding whether to strike now or let the game go a little longer.

He set down his wine glass. The base connected with the marble tabletop with a faint click — barely audible, yet it landed in my ears like a thunderclap.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes locking onto mine. His voice had a texture to it, like something dragged across sandpaper — not loud, but the moment he spoke, the room went so quiet that even the sound of breathing seemed to vanish. "Since it's out in the open now," he said, "come sit next to me."

I felt my soul leave my body. It drifted up and perched on the crystal chandelier, looking down at the version of me still standing below — face drained of color, heart hammering at what felt like a clinically dangerous rate.

What was required of me, in this moment, was to walk across the room under the gaze of some of the most powerful people in New York, sit down beside a man I had never exchanged a single word with before tonight, and play the role of his girlfriend. That man was currently watching me with an expression that said, clearly, let's see what you do with this — and the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth suggested he was finding it entertaining.

I was finished. I had to have offended him beyond any reasonable repair.

And yet my feet started moving.

Whether my brain was driving them or some deeply buried survival instinct had taken over, I couldn't say. The crystal light fell across my face. I could feel dozens of stares adhering to my back like static.

Someone drew a sharp breath. Somewhere to my left, voices murmured. Someone had probably already pulled out their phone.

All I could do was keep my eyes on him.

Adrian Cyrus Lowell's face held no particular expression. His gray eyes tracked my approach with calm, unhurried attention — the way someone might watch a tightrope-walking ant and wonder, idly, how far it would get.

With every step closer, those eyes came into sharper focus. They were striking, objectively — but being watched by them made me want to fold in on myself and roll back to my terrible little office.

I reached him. A server had already materialized and pulled back the chair to his right with practiced efficiency. When I sat down, my knees were shaking. I was convinced the entire room could hear them.

He glanced at me, then reached across the table and held out the folded napkin.

My mind had gone completely blank. I stared at it as though he'd produced something inexplicable.

He made a short, dismissive sound — half a laugh, half contempt, the kind reserved for people who flinch at shadows — and unfolded the napkin himself, laying it across my lap with the casual ease of someone who had done it ten thousand times before.

From around the table came a few soft, weighted chuckles. In my peripheral vision, people exchanged glances.

The only thought in my head was: if I faked low blood sugar and passed out right now, would it be too obvious?

Yes. Absolutely yes.

And I couldn't afford to lose consciousness anyway, because the man beside me had let his gaze drift, just slightly, to the side of my neck — the way a thin blade rests against skin before it moves.

I didn't turn to look at him, but I felt it. That particular prickling at the scalp that comes from being noticed by something at the top of the food chain.

It was clear that whatever I'd done tonight had caught his interest, and he wasn't done with it yet. If I tried to retreat now, I wouldn't just be failing — I'd be actively making an enemy of him.

A server refilled my glass. I reached for it on instinct, and the moment my fingertips touched the stem I realized how badly my hands were shaking. The liquid rippled in slow, spreading rings. I nearly sloshed it onto the tablecloth.

Adrian — the man who supposedly couldn't be bothered to shake hands — reached over and lifted the glass from my fingers without ceremony. He set it on his side of the table, then said, at a volume meant only for me: "Someone with nerves like yours actually had the nerve to pretend to be my girlfriend?"

My ears went hot. Was there any version of reality where dropping to my knees and begging forgiveness would still help?

Someone nearby had noticed the exchange. Their gaze moved between us, and the smile that settled on their face was one of quiet confirmation. Across the table, I caught someone murmuring under their breath: "Lowell's actually looking after someone."

I arranged my face into what I intended as a composed, gracious smile — though it probably read as mild facial spasms — and angled my body slightly toward him. "Thank you," I said.

He glanced at me. In those gray eyes was something I couldn't quite name — something that looked like it might be amusement, or appraisal, or both.

I pretended not to understand it.

I forced myself to settle. Every person at this table was watching us with the kind of attention that disguises itself as polite curiosity — but underneath it I recognized the machinery: calculation, measurement, reassessment. They were all trying to work out how a woman no one had ever heard of had ended up sitting next to a man who almost never appeared in New York's financial world at all.

I turned to look at Adrian. The overhead light came down at an angle that cut his jaw into something architectural — clean lines, sharp relief.

He sat with the ease of a man in his own living room, as though the attention and speculation in the room had nothing to do with him. And yet the room's center of gravity was him. Every word spoken, every glance exchanged, orbited around where he sat.

And I, sitting beside him, had become the second point everyone's eyes kept returning to.

In my periphery, Ethan was staring at me from across the table. His expression was layered — disbelief and scrutiny on top, and underneath something that looked like the specific disappointment of a person whose illusions had been disturbed.

Maybe it was the delayed effect of the two glasses of wine I'd had earlier. Maybe it was the particular satisfaction of watching Ethan's face.

I turned to Adrian and gave him the kind of slow, sweet smile a woman wears when she's completely at ease with the man beside her. I pitched my voice just loud enough for the nearest people to catch it. "Sweetheart — my bracelet's come loose. Would you mind?"

The undercurrent in the room went still. My request had apparently exceeded the boundaries of what anyone had anticipated — because in their calculation, a woman in my position simply didn't ask Adrian Lowell to do things for her.

I felt him pause. It was so slight that I only caught it because I was sitting right next to him.

He set down his fork and turned to look at me.

Something moved through those gray eyes. I didn't have time to identify it — surprise, maybe, or amusement, or something closer to approval.

Whatever it was, the corner of his mouth curved — just barely — and he reached out and lifted the silver bracelet from my palm with unhurried ease, leaning in to fasten the clasp.

"Anything else you need from me?" His tone was languid, almost indulgent.