He wore a black tuxedo that cost more than her college tuition.

His hair was cut sharp.

His slate-gray eyes swept over her, starting at her bare shoulders down to her strappy heels.

He didn’t speak for five long seconds.

The radiator in the hall clanked loudly.

“You clean up well, Miss Gallagher.”

“You look like every other tax fraud in Cook County, Mr. Costello.”

Arthur’s lips curved faintly.

“Keep that tongue sharp.”

“You will need it.”

He offered his arm.

Beatrice hesitated for a fraction of a second before looping her hand through his elbow.

His bicep felt like solid steel under the fabric.

Downstairs, a black armored Maybach waited at the curb.

Neighbors peeked through dirty window blinds.

Arthur opened the passenger door himself, shielding her head with his hand as she entered.

Inside, the scent of expensive leather wrapped around them.

The privacy partition was already raised.

Arthur reached into his breast pocket and produced a velvet box.

“Put these on.”

Beatrice opened it.

A pair of emerald drop earrings gleamed inside.

Surrounded by diamonds that caught the streetlights outside.

“Arthur, no.”

“These are worth more than my building.”

“They belonged to my mother.”

Beatrice froze.

She looked from the stones to his face.

“Your family will think we’re engaged.”

“My family will think whatever keeps them terrified.”

He took the earrings from the velvet cushion.

“Hold still.”

His fingers were warm against her earlobe.

The contact sent an unexpected shiver straight down her spine.

His breath grazed her jawline.

“You’re trembling, Beatrice.”

“It’s cold in your car.”

“The heating is set to seventy-two.”

She looked away, staring at the blurred city lights.

“Why did you buy Tommy’s debt?”

“I told you. A business solution.”

“Tommy told me yesterday he never asked Liam for a loan.”

Arthur didn’t pull back his hands.

He fastened the second emerald with steady fingers.

“Boys lie when they lose.”

“He didn’t lose,” Beatrice whispered.

“He said someone planted the counterfeit bills in his locker at the docks.”

Arthur sat back, smoothing his cuff.

His face was completely unreadable.

“We are entering the Drake Hotel in two minutes.”

“Smile for the cameras, Miss Gallagher.”

“And remember.”

He turned his gaze toward her, cold and lethal.

“Whatever happens tonight, you stay at my side.”

The car slowed to a halt.

Valets in red coats rushed toward the door.

Flashbulbs erupted against the dark glass like sudden lightning.

The Grand Ballroom of the Drake Hotel was drowning in white orchids and champagne flutes.

Hundreds of guests turned as the double oak doors swung open.

Arthur Costello walked in.

His hand rested firmly against the small of Beatrice’s back.

The low murmur of conversation died instantly.

Beatrice felt every eye in the room lock onto her.

She felt the weight of diamond necklaces and loaded stares.

“Arthur,” a voice purred.

Sophia Carmichael glided forward.

She wore a silver backless dress and an expression carved from ice.

Beside her stood Leo, looking profoundly uncomfortable.

“You made it,” Sophia said, her eyes drilling into Beatrice’s earrings.

“And who is this charming creature?”

“Beatrice Gallagher,” Arthur introduced smoothly.

“My partner.”

Sophia’s eyebrows arched into perfect, cruel arches.

“Partner? In business, or…?”

“In whatever matters,” Arthur said.

Beatrice kept her chin high.

“I manage Mr. Costello’s assets, Mrs. Carmichael.”

“Including the ones people try to hide in overseas shell companies.”

Leo choked on his champagne.

Sophia’s eyes narrowed into slits.

“How terribly quaint.”

“An accountant with family heirlooms.”

She reached out a manicured finger toward the emerald at Beatrice’s neck.

Arthur’s hand caught Sophia’s wrist mid-air.

The movement was so fast nobody saw it start.

The grip was loose, but Sophia’s smile vanished completely.

“Do not touch her,” Arthur said softly.

His tone was pleasant.

It carried the chill of an open grave.

“Arthur, please,” Leo whispered, glancing around.

“People are watching.”

Arthur released Sophia’s wrist.

A faint red mark lingered on her pale skin.

“Enjoy your wedding, Leo,” Arthur said.

He guided Beatrice toward the VIP table near the orchestra.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Beatrice said under her breath.

“Yes, I did.”

“She was trying to provoke you.”

“She was testing my boundaries.”

Arthur pulled out her chair.

“Now she knows where they are.”

Across the room, an older man with silver hair and a heavy gold signet ring was watching them.

Richard Spatafora.

The man Beatrice had flagged in her audit for embezzling three million dollars.

He raised his glass toward Arthur.

His smile did not reach his watery blue eyes.

“He knows,” Beatrice murmured, sitting down.

“Of course he knows,” Arthur said, taking the seat beside her.

“He thinks he is going to walk out of here alive tonight.”

“Arthur—”

“Eat your salad, Beatrice.”

A waiter approached, placing two flutes of vintage champagne on the linen tablecloth.