Briar's POV

My boyfriend had a body count for orgasms and zero interest in mine.

"We're basically married already." Brandon's mouth was on my neck, one hand already shoving under my dress to find my breast, squeezing like he owned it. "Why wait?"

"Brandon." My fingers curled against his shoulders, "you're going to propose to me tonight, aren't you?"

"Briar." Brandon's hand slid up my thigh, gripping hard enough to leave marks. His breathing got faster, more ragged. That sound he made when he was close. "Relax."

I wrapped my arms around his back the way he liked, pulled him closer. The gesture made me feel better, if only a little. At least there was someone in this house who touched me like I mattered. Even if the touch was brief. Even if the only thing he was chasing was his own finish line.

Brandon groaned, shuddered, and collapsed on top of me.

"God," he panted. "That was exactly what I needed."

He never did make it inside before those three minutes were up.

I waited for him to say something else. Something about the night ahead. Something about the ring I knew was in his jacket pocket because I'd accidentally seen it last week when I was looking for his keys.

He rolled off and started reaching for his pants.

"I have to go down," he said. "There are investors I need to talk to before the speeches."

"Brandon—"

"I'll find you later, okay? First dance. I promise."

He kissed my forehead—fast, perfunctory—and was out the door before I could ask when "later" meant.

I lay there for a full minute, then I sat up and looked at myself in the vanity mirror.

My dress was still on. It had bunched up around my waist. I'd worn it because I wanted to feel beautiful tonight, wanted him to see me walking down those stairs and think that's the woman I'm going to marry.

It was a deep navy blue. Three seasons out of date—I knew that, of course. But it had cost me four months of my teacher's salary. The tag was still in the back because I'd told myself I could return it if things didn't work out.

I smiled at my reflection anyway, because tonight that was supposed to change.

Downstairs, the Coldwell Group's anniversary gala was already in full swing — string quartet, champagne towers, half of Wall Street wearing borrowed smiles. My father stood at the center of it, Marlowe on his arm, Calla glowing beside them in a dress that had definitely not come from two seasons ago.

Nobody looked up when I walked in.

I'd learned, a long time ago, exactly how much space I was allowed to take up in this house. Enough to be useful. Never enough to be seen.

I wasn't Warren Coldwell's daughter in any way that mattered — not the way Calla was. My mother had been someone he'd loved before he married well, before Marlowe, before the version of his life he'd decided to keep. I was the part of the story nobody mentioned at dinner parties.

The orchestra struck up the first waltz. The dance floor cleared, couples pairing off, spinning into the familiar rhythm.

I searched the crowd for Brandon.

He was already on the floor.

With Calla.

His hand was on her waist. Her hand was on his shoulder. They were moving together like they'd practiced a thousand times, her red skirt flaring out with each turn, his eyes locked on hers with that smile he used to give me.

I watched for three full rotations before I could breathe again.

"Look at them," a woman near me said to her companion. "Absolutely gorgeous together."

"Better match than the other one, that's for sure."

"Honestly, doesn't it just make sense? He's doubled his division's revenue two years running, and she's the Coldwell heir. That's a couple."

I gripped my champagne glass so hard my knuckles went white.

This wasn't happening. Brandon wouldn't do this to me. He was going to propose tonight. He'd promised.

And I needed that proposal—not just because I loved him, but because I needed it. A ring on my finger, a husband with his title and his rising star in the company—that was my only way out. Marry Brandon, and suddenly I wasn't just Warren Coldwell's shameful secret anymore.

I'd have a name that meant something, a position that forced people to look me in the eye. I'd have room to breathe, to build something of my own, maybe even carve out a career that wasn't buried under my stepmother's thumb.

He knew that. He knew what this meant to me. And he'd promised.

I set down my glass and started walking. I needed to find him.

The upstairs hallway was empty. Quiet, apart from the muffled music drifting up from below.