Page 64 of The Billionaire's Promise

I had a dress at home, but Charlie had taken one look and declared it 'boring'. She'd gone shopping for me, saying I was too conservative. Coming from a woman who lived in business suits, it was an ironic accusation.

At first, I'd refused to wear the dress she'd picked out. For one thing, it was short. I didn't do short. If I had to worry about bending over in it, I didn't wear it. There would be no bending in this dress. If I dropped anything, it was gone forever while I had this thing on. Also, it was black. I liked color. Still, I had to admit, the black wrap dress made my body look ten times better than it really was.

My legs weren't bad after months of running, and though the skirt was short, it covered the roundest part of my thighs. The fabric pulled together at my waist, making it look tiny. I wasn't showing much cleavage. The dress was tasteful, but something about the cut emphasized my breasts. I was curvy to begin with. In this dress, I was a bombshell.

I'd tried to do my own makeup, but Charlie had brushed me aside, shoving another glass of wine in my hand and telling me to drink up. I had. Despite her help with my dress and everything else, I didn't want to go to Vance's show. The idea of being anywhere near him made me ill.

He'd stopped calling. Not even a text. That was that. It hurt even more to know he'd given up on me so easily. I knew I'd done the right thing in kicking him out. He didn't love me, and I wasn't going to waste another second of my life on a man who didn't want me more than his next breath.

I wanted it all. Love. Family. I was going to hold out for someone I could love with everything I had, someone who loved me the same way.

That all sounded good in theory. Reality was a deep ache in my heart, a gaping hole that used to be filled with Vance. And Rosie. How could I have fallen so hard for a person who wasn't old enough to sit up? I'd always wanted children, but I'd had no clue how one tiny, helpless human could claim me so completely.

Part of me was on constant alert for the sound of her crying, worried she needed something. I knew she was with her father, and Vance adored his little girl. The way he'd stepped up for her was one more thing to love about him.

My breath hitched in my chest as I smothered a sob. Charlie's head whipped around. "Don't you dare cry and mess up my makeup job. You look gorgeous and we're almost there. Just hold it together a little longer, and this will all be over. We'll go in, have a drink, chat for a few minutes, and then sneak out the back. If you feel yourself getting weepy, bite the inside of your lip. Hard. Or pinch the skin between your thumb and pointer finger. They both work."

"What?" Her advice was so matter-of-fact, I knew it came from personal experience.

"Bite the inside of your lip or pinch the skin between your thumb and pointer finger. Hard enough to hurt. The pain will distract you long enough to keep yourself from crying. It doesn't do the trick for long, but it helps."

I didn't need to ask Charlie when she'd needed to keep herself from crying in public. I'd seen the pictures of her at her parents’ funeral. Every tear had been photographed and sold for entertainment. The Winters family had learned the hard way to keep their emotions to themselves.

I dug my nails into that tender strip of skin between my fingers and found that she was right. The flash of pain didn't do anything about the hole in my heart, but it shocked my nervous system enough to chase away the tears.

A few minutes later, we were pulling up in front of Sloane's gallery. A valet took Charlotte's keys, and she rounded the car to me, threading her arm through mine and tossing her sleek, auburn hair over her shoulder.

"Smile," she hissed at me. "Don't give the vultures anything."

I did, stretching my lips into a replica of a smile, pretending to look around the packed gallery as we entered. After all the planning, I'll admit to a surge of triumph at the crowd. Half of the pieces already had red SOLD stickers pinned beside the descriptions. The last piece Vance had finished took center stage in the first room, towering above the elegantly dressed guests.

Twice my height, somehow both sinuous and muscular, the shades of grey metal gleamed beneath the strategic lighting. I expected to see a SOLD sticker on that piece as well. It hadn't been a commission, but we already had a buyer in mind, and the last I'd heard, it had been a done deal.

Now, instead of a price, the information plaque stated that Vance had donated the sculpture to the Winters Foundation’s silent auction. Abigail must have been thrilled. It was worth a ton. I imagined Sloane's fury when she'd heard the news. For the first time that night, my smile was genuine.

Heart pounding in my chest, I scanned the room for Vance. He was nowhere to be seen. Vance was never the shy artist lurking in the corner at his own shows. He was usually himself—charming, cocky, amusing—and at the center of the crowd. I was grateful that he was out of sight. It would be so much easier to get through this if I could avoid him completely.

Charlie towed me to the bar and shoved a drink in my hand. I took a sip and winced. "What is this?"

"A Moscow mule," she said.

"It's too strong," I complained.

"I know. That's the point. Drink up. There are people heading this way."

There were. Investors we were working with on a few projects. We did the cheek kiss, social hug thing and they jumped right in to business. I let out a breath of relief. Business I could handle. I knew every detail of our projects. I could talk numbers in my sleep. Or while most of my attention was on the shifting mass of people in the room, hyper-alert for any sign of Vance.

So far, so good. The investors thanked me for the update I barely remembered giving and wandered off. I turned to scan the crowd from another angle when Charlie's fingers closed around my arm.

"She-bitch at three o'clock," she said in a low voice. Sure enough, Sloane was bearing down on us, her perfectly made up face screwed into a familiar look of annoyance.

"Where have you been?" she hissed. "You were supposed to be here to help me set up."

I shrugged, utterly without an answer. Ishouldhave been there to help. I hadn't even bothered to call. It was rude, thoughtless, and I couldn't bring myself to give a crap. My heart had been smashed to pieces, and for once in my life, I was looking out for me.

It wasn't like Sloane didn't have gallery staff. She hip-checked Charlie out of the way, snatched the drink from my hand, and wrapped her arm around my shoulders, her fingers biting into my skin through the thin fabric of my dress.

Steering me at a quick pace through the crowded gallery, she said, "There's a major problem with the setup in the garden. Major. Why haven't you been answering your phone?"