𝗔 𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗬 𝗥𝗜𝗦𝗞𝗬 𝗚𝗔𝗠𝗕𝗟𝗘

10 | the gala

Although I hadn't been excited about playing dress-up, Max had been right. Jameson's face when he saw my dress made everything worth it.

"I presume that Max helped with your wardrobe?" he asked, opening the passenger door of his Porsche.

I took his hand and climbed into the car. "How did you know?"

"It's backless." Jameson crossed to the opposite side of the car and climbed into the driver's side. "And tight." Reaching across the console to grasp my thigh, he added in a low murmur, "Not to mention the neckline."

His voice was near a growl.

I was smiling.

Jameson was still watching me when he pulled away from the curb. Although town hall - where the charity gala was being held - was only two blocks away, I began to worry.

"Don't crash," I said.

"If I do, it will be utterly your fault." His eyes were on my neck.

Probably considering where to give me my next hickey.

While Jameson drove, I watched the road, just in case.

When we arrived unscathed, I couldn't repress my surprise. However, Jameson wasn't done eyeing me.

As he helped me out of the car, I could already see the sins on his lips. Jameson and I wove through several pillars and finally into the domed building.

This event was much like every other we attended. However, this wasn't just another charity. My intentions with this were to donate the remaining millions of ninety-five percent of my fortune. And it was, thankfully, about a subject I was passionate about: the dispersement of feminine hygiene products in the poorest foreign countries.

After tonight, only five percent of my money would remain. However, that still left me with more than enough for a dozen lifetimes.

Keeping me alert, Jameson guided me into the reception hall. Dressed with black tablecloths, dozens of tables peppered the checkered tile beneath us.

A delicate portion of food was amongst every seat in the hall, paired by napkins folded into roses.

Before too many cameras could flash or reporters could hound us, Jameson escorted me to the nearest table. Although it was on the outskirts of the room, as people began to filter in, they lingered near us.

No one seemed to have the courage to join us.

At least, no one did until him.

A tall, brunette boy who looked to be between Jameson and I's ages, perked his eyebrows at me and took the seat across from mine.

Beneath the table, Jameson's hand tightened on my thigh.

"Good evening, Miss Grambs." Although his words were polite, there was a slight cunning expression on his face that made me uncomfortable.

"Avery," I corrected, keeping my voice even. "And you are?"

"David."

He didn't give a last name, and the silence that followed prickled goosebumps onto my arms.

"I don't recall that name on the invitation list," I said, quirking an eyebrow.

"I came with my father."

"Where is he?"

Before I had the chance to glance around the room, David stood, almost abruptly, and took the open seat on my right.

I heard Jameson's teeth grind.

"He'll be back soon," David said, his lips forming a sly smile. "But in the meantime, I have a question for you."

Imperceptibly, I moved my chair against Jameson's.

"Yes?"

"Why," he inquired, "did an old man select a random girl he didn't know to inherit his fortune?" His breath was cold as he leaned in, too close for comfort. "And why," he continued, "was it you?"

Jameson pulled me back against him. "You'd better watch your mouth," he murmured, "or I'll do something I regret."

"In itself, your life seems fairly regrettable." David chuckled.

Jameson's knuckles were white, gripping his chair.

"I'd prefer," I managed, "if you sat at another table."

David smiled. Actually smiled. "I'm afraid that's not a possibility. My father specifically requested that we sit with the heiress" - his eyes flickered to Jameson amusedly - "herself."

"I'm afraid that I have to ask you to move," I say. "My head of security, Oren, is just outside."

"And my father's head of security," David said, smirking, "along with a dozen soldiers, are outside as well."

I stared at him a moment, not comprehending.

Jameson, I could tell, was about to jump to his feet and pummel the guy. But I was more focused on David's words.

If his father needed security, who could he be?

Everything fell into place when a middle-aged man placed his hands on David's shoulders. His face was familiar, but not because I'd met him.

Because his face had been broadcast across every screen in America for longer than I'd lived in Hawthorne House.

This was the president of the United States.

And my boyfriend was about to pick a fist-fight with his son.