Page 94 of The Tower

A server in white gloves offers me a glass of champagne from a tray. Not just any champagne—Dom Pérignon White Gold Jeroboam. I recognize the distinctive bottle that costs more than most people’s monthly rent. Alexander Grimm doesn’t just serve expensive champagne—he serves the kind of champagne that becomes legend in society columns.

I smooth the front of my gown, hyperaware of every eye that turns my way as Liam guides me through the sea of New York’s elite. My mind races, and I search out every exit, wanting to ensure I can get inside quickly if I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of the space surrounding this opulent enclave.

As we stroll, I catch snippets of whispered conversations, some admiring, others suspicious. The pressure of their stares makes my skin prickle, but Liam’s steady presence beside me acts as an anchor.

In one corner, a famous tech billionaire negotiates with a Saudi prince while pretending they’re just chatting about the weather. Near the edge of the terrace where the glass barriers provide an illusion of safety, the heiress to a banking fortune I met three years ago laughs too loudly with a designer whose latest collection costs more than what most Americans make in a year. This is wealth so extreme it has its own gravity, pulling everyone into carefully calculated orbits.

“Sasha! Darling! What a surprise to see you here.” Carole Van Ryan, one of my father’s oldest associates, leans in to kiss both my cheeks. Her meticulously sculpted silver hair gleams under the twinkling lights, setting her diamond choker—that must be worth millions—afire.

She glances at Grimm, then back to me. “I have to confess that I’m surprised to see you here. There’s been such a kerfluffle of gossip about your engagement to Mr. Bane.”

She smiles, letting a pause hang in the air. When my silence passes the point of rudeness, she turns to Grimm. “And you’re Ms. Reed’s escort for the night? Do set the rumor mill to rest. Everyone’s all atwitter about whether you kidnapped Ms. Reed from the gala or eloped.”

“What delightful stories,” Grimm says, then gestures to include the entire roof as he lightly presses his hand to the small of my back. “We really should mingle.”

“But-but you’re well?”

I pause in the act of stepping away and look over my shoulder. “I am,” I assure her, my society smile firmly in place. “In fact, I’m finding that independence suits me.”

“Oh. Well, yes.” Her gaze shifts meaningfully to Grimm. “And in such unexpected company. Your father must be beside himself.”

“I wouldn’t know. We haven’t spoken recently,” I say smoothly.

Her eyes widen behind what I’m certain are thirteen-thousand-dollar designer frames. “My dear, surely you know he’s been telling everyone you’ve been abducted? There’s quite the reward for information on your whereabouts.” She leans in, her perfume—custom-blended, no doubt—clouding around us. “Some are saying ten million.”

I force myself not to react. “How interesting. But I promise that Mr. Grimm hasn’t abducted me. I make a show moving closer as his arms goes around my waist. “The farthest thing from that, in fact.”

“Oh,” she says, looking scandalized.

The whole situation is so surreal it’s all I can do not to laugh.

“Sasha!” A booming voice cuts through the ambient chatter. Maxwell Hartwell III, banking magnate and notorious gossip, approaches with his third wife trailing behind him. The diamonds in her ears could fund a small country’s infrastructure. “Is it true? You left poor Desmond at the altar?”

“Hardly the altar, Max,” I correct, feeling Liam tense beside me. “Just an unfortunate announcement.”

“Not according to Desmond,” Maxwell says, his expression gleefully scandalized. “He’s here tonight, you know. Telling anyone who’ll listen that the engagement is absolutely still on. Says your various … conditions … made you nervous and you simply needed to retreat home. Temporary setback, he called it.”

I feel my heart stutter. “Desmond is here?”

“Over by the east terrace. With the Ashcroft-Hathaways.” Maxwell’s eyes dart between Liam and me, clearly cataloging every detail for later gossip.

Liam’s hand presses against my bare back, a silent reassurance. “If you’ll excuse us,” he says, his tone making it clear it’s not a request.

“We need to leave,” I whisper to Grimm. “I can’t see Desmond. Who knows what he’ll do—to me and to you.”

“Desmond Bane is a monster,” Grimm confirms, “but I believe you’ve called me the same on more than one occasion.”

I grimace. “That was before I knew you.”

He coughs out a laugh. “Your opinion hasn’t changed, Princess. We both know that. But at the moment, I’m your monster.”

I meet his eyes, seeing both humor and heat. It’s the latter that seems to zing down my body to rest between my thighs.

“Why can’t we go now? We’re here. We’ve mingled. I’m clearly functioning.”

“Your father can’t be able to argue that we came in, made one lap, and bolted.”

I want to argue, but he has a point.