Hardy's arm jerked. He pulled away from Izabella so abruptly that she stumbled, her white heel catching on the carpet.

"Hardy?" Izabella's voice wavered, the mask slipping for a fraction of a second.

Hardy didn't look at her. He adjusted his cuff, a sharp, irritated movement. He crossed the three feet separating him from Ellyn in a single stride.

He blocked her path.

The room went silent. Sloane stopped laughing.

Hardy extended his hand, palm up.

"We're late," he said, his voice low and rough. "Grandmother Rose is waiting in the VIP suite."

Ellyn stared at his hand. It was large, calloused from rowing crew at Yale, capable of hurting her and holding her.

"Hardy..."

"Take my hand, Ellyn," he commanded, though there was a strange urgency in his eyes.

She placed her hand in his. His fingers closed around hers instantly, tight, almost crushing. It wasn't a romantic hold; it was a grip. An anchor.

He pulled her to his side, turning his back on Izabella.

As they passed Sloane, Hardy stopped. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

"Sloane," Hardy said. His voice was quiet, lethal. "If you speak to my wife with that tone again, I will freeze your access to the family trust. You'll be begging for a job at a diner by Monday."

Sloane paled, her mouth opening and closing like a fish.

Hardy didn't wait for a response. He marched Ellyn through the crowd, his grip never loosening. They entered the private corridor leading to the VIP suites, the heavy velvet curtains cutting off the noise of the party.

The moment they were alone, Hardy dropped her hand.

Ellyn rubbed her knuckles. "Thank you," she said softly.

"Don't," Hardy snapped. He loosened his bow tie, pacing the narrow hallway. "I didn't do it for you. The Burnett name doesn't tolerate public discord. You looked weak out there."

The relief Ellyn had felt evaporated. "I looked weak because you walked in with your ex-girlfriend."

"She needed help," Hardy said defensively, though he wouldn't meet her eyes. "I'm not going to leave a woman stranded on the sidewalk."

"You left me stranded in this marriage three years ago," Ellyn shot back.

Hardy stopped pacing. He looked at her, really looked at her, his jaw working. For a second, something raw flashed in his eyes-anger? Guilt? Desire?

"Mr. and Mrs. Burnett," a sharp voice croaked.

Grandmother Rose sat in her wheelchair at the end of the hall, her cane tapping rhythmically on the floor.

Hardy's mask slammed back into place. He grabbed Ellyn's hand again.

"Smile," he hissed. "Showtime."

Grandmother Rose didn't smile. Her eyes, sharp as hawks, darted between Hardy and Ellyn.

"You're late," she said. "And I hear rumors of a circus out there."

"Just rumors, Grandmother," Hardy said smoothly. He guided Ellyn to the sofa opposite the wheelchair.

"Is there news?" Rose asked, pointing her cane at Ellyn's stomach. "The stock price is wobbling. The board wants stability. They want an heir."

Ellyn felt the phantom taste of the morning-after pill in her mouth.

"We're trying," Hardy lied. His voice was steady, convincing. He shot a look at Ellyn, a silent command. "Play along," he hissed under his breath, so low only she could hear, "unless you want the board to panic." "These things take time."

"Time is money," Rose snapped. "If you can't provide, Ellyn, the family will have to consider... alternatives. We need viable lineage."

She meant Izabella. The threat hung in the air, toxic and heavy.

Ellyn forced herself to stand. She walked behind Rose's wheelchair and began to massage the old woman's tense shoulders.

"Hardy is taking good care of me, Grandmother," Ellyn said, her voice soft. "He makes sure I rest. He brings me tea in the morning. We are very... happy."

Hardy watched her. His eyebrows lifted slightly. He knew she was lying, but he seemed surprised by how easily it rolled off her tongue.

Rose relaxed under Ellyn's hands. "Good. You have good hands, child. Don't let that Macdonald girl steal your seat. She's flashy, but she's not sturdy."

"I won't," Ellyn whispered.

Hardy stood up abruptly. "I need to speak to the board members."

He grabbed Ellyn's elbow and steered her out of the suite. Once they were in the corridor, he didn't let go. He pushed her back until her shoulder blades hit the wall.

He caged her in, his arms on either side of her head.

"Tea in the morning?" he murmured, leaning down. His breath smelled of scotch and mint. "You're a better liar than I thought."

"I learned from the best," Ellyn said, her heart hammering against her ribs.

Hardy stared at her mouth. His gaze darkened. The anger from earlier seemed to mutate into something else-something hotter. He leaned closer. His nose brushed hers.

"Maybe we should make it true," he whispered, his voice dropping an octave. "The heir part."

Ellyn stopped breathing. For a terrifying second, she wanted him to close the gap.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

A specific, melodic ringtone cut through the air. Clair de Lune.

Izabella's ringtone.

Hardy froze. The spell shattered. He pulled back, fishing his phone from his pocket.

"Bella?" His voice changed instantly-softer, concerned. "Where are you? ... The driver isn't there? Stay put. I'm coming."

He hung up. He didn't look at Ellyn.

"I have to go," he said.

"Hardy," Ellyn said, her voice trembling. "Don't go."

"She's alone, Ellyn."

"I'm alone," she whispered.

He hesitated, his hand on the doorknob. Then he turned it. "Go eat dinner. I'll be back."

He left her standing in the hallway, the echo of his footsteps fading away.

Ellyn walked back into the ballroom. It felt like walking into a lion's den without a whip.

She found her place card at the long banquet table. It was at the far end, near the kitchen doors. Hardy's seat at the head of the table was empty.

She sat down. Directly across from her sat Dian Burnett, Hardy's mother.

Dian took a sip of her wine, her eyes cold over the rim of the glass.

"Where is my son?" Dian asked.

"He had business to attend to," Ellyn said, unfolding her napkin.

"Business named Izabella, I assume," Dian said loudly. The guests nearby fell silent. "Thank God. Someone needs to bring some pedigree back to this family. Some fabrics are just... polyester. No matter how much you tailor them."

Ellyn gripped her silverware. The metal dug into her palms.

"I hope the Pennington bankruptcy proceedings are going well," Dian continued, slicing her steak aggressively. "It must be hard, knowing your father is spending your allowance on horse races."

Laughter rippled down the table.

Ellyn stood up. Her chair scraped loudly against the floor.

"Excuse me," she said.

"Leaving so soon?" Dian smiled. "Don't let the door hit you."

Ellyn walked out. She didn't run, but it was close. She pushed through the French doors onto the terrace, gasping for air. The night was humid, the sky threatening rain.

She walked to the far end of the garden, into the shadows of the hedges. She needed to hide.

Voices drifted from the other side of the greenery. A group of debutantes, smoking.

"Did you see Hardy leave? He practically ran to the valet."

"Izabella is winning. I heard he's buying back the penthouse for her."

"Ellyn is a joke. A placeholder. Everyone knows she trapped him with that pregnancy scare three years ago."

Ellyn wrapped her arms around herself. A joke. That's all she was.

She turned to go back inside and collided with a body.

Sloane blocked her path.

"Eavesdropping?" Sloane smirked. "Truth hurts, doesn't it?"

"Get out of my way, Sloane."

"Hardy doesn't love you," Sloane hissed, stepping closer. "He defended you earlier to save face. But tonight? He's with her. He's probably buying her diamonds right now."

"At least I have the ring," Ellyn said, her voice shaking. "You're just a spectator."

Sloane raised a hand to shove her.

Ellyn sidestepped. Sloane stumbled, her high heel sinking into the soft earth of the flowerbed. She flailed, grabbing a rosebush. Thorns tore at her expensive dress.

Ellyn didn't stop. She walked deeper into the terrace, toward the stone balustrade overlooking the city.

She needed silence.

But she didn't get it.

From the dark corner of the terrace, a familiar voice drifted on the wind. Low. Baritone.

Hardy.