Amara's POV
The night blurred around me, but him, I felt him with startling clarity. His arms were strong and steady. His chest was solid beneath my cheek. His scent surrounded me, cedarwood and musk, threaded with the faintest hint of leather, warm and devastating. It clung to me, seeped into me, until I was not sure where the dizziness of the wine ended and where Trey began.
I told myself I should fight it, that I should push at his chest and demand he put me down. But my limbs were heavy, my heart too loud, and the truth was too sharp. I did not want him to let me go.
The grand doors opened, servants bowing their heads as we entered. I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. To them, I must have looked like a girl who could not hold her liquor, a girl being carried home like a burden. But Trey's hold was not careless or mocking. It was protective and commanding. He carried me as though I belonged there, as though no one else had the right.
"Sir, allow me," one of the footmen stepped forward, hands outstretched.
"I said I'll carry her," Trey cut in, his voice cool and absolute. The man stepped back instantly, and the rest of the staff scattered like shadows.
Shame burned hot in my chest, but beneath it, another ache pulsed, softer and treacherous. The ache of being held. Of being his, if only for this one fragile moment.
We passed through the marble halls, the soft glow of chandeliers scattering across his face. I risked tilting my head back just enough to glimpse him. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed ahead, but there was something in the set of his mouth, a tension, a restraint, as though carrying me cost him more than he would ever admit.
My heart squeezed. I wanted to ask why. Why he looked at me like that. Why he carried me himself instead of leaving me to the servants. Why, after all the cruelty, he could still be this gentle.
But the words tangled on my tongue, too heavy and too dangerous.
He adjusted his grip slightly, pulling me closer against his chest as though I might slip away. The motion drew me deeper into his scent, cedar and musk, laced with something warm and expensive that felt purely him. It was unbearable how much I wanted this, how much I wanted him.
At the foot of the grand staircase, he finally paused. His gaze dropped briefly to mine, and for a heartbeat, the world stopped. His eyes were darker than the night sky outside, a storm I wanted to fall into even if it destroyed me.
"Hold on," he murmured, low and rough.
I did not argue. I did not fight. My fingers curled tighter into his jacket, traitorous and trembling, as he carried me up the stairs, every step a reminder of the impossible closeness I swore I did not need but could not let go of.
And though pride burned in me, though my heart screamed that I should hate him, I could not escape the truth.
I was safe in his arms.
And God help me, I did not want to leave them.
The hallway to my room seemed to stretch forever, the chandelier light glinting off polished wood and marble, but I barely saw it. All I felt was him. His heartbeat beneath my cheek. His warmth seeping through the thin fabric of my dress.
My fingers clung to his jacket as he pushed my door open with his shoulder and stepped inside, the quiet hush of my room wrapping around us.
He moved slowly now, as though every motion were deliberate. Gently, almost reverently, he bent toward the bed and lowered me to my feet. My heels wobbled on the carpet, my hands still gripping his lapel like I could not let go. My heart hammered so violently it was all I could hear, louder than my unsteady breathing, louder than the whisper of his suit against mine.
He leaned closer, one hand still at my waist to steady me, the other brushing a strand of hair from my face. For one dizzy, dangerous heartbeat I was sure of it. Trey was going to kiss me. His eyes dropped to my lips, his breath warm against my cheek, and everything inside me went molten.
And then, to my horror, the world pitched.
The sick taste hit the back of my throat before I could stop it.
I choked out a sound and lurched forward just as it happened, the wine, the food, the shame, all of it rushing up and spilling against his immaculate suit.
"No," I gasped, mortified, my hands flying to my mouth as though I could undo it. My vision blurred with tears. "Oh God, Trey."
But he did not curse. He did not flinch.
He caught me again, steady as stone, one arm sliding around my back as the other guided me toward the bathroom. "Easy," he murmured, his voice low and even. "It's okay. Don't fight it."
I wanted to disappear. I wanted the earth to open and swallow me whole. I had never felt so small, so humiliated. But Trey did not let go. He led me to the bathroom with patient strength, flicking on the light with his elbow and easing me down to the cool tiles in front of the sink.
Kneeling beside me, he gathered my hair back from my face, his fingers sliding gently but firmly to hold it away as I retched. His palm rubbed slow circles between my shoulder blades, firm and steady, the warmth of it grounding me while everything else came undone.
"That's it," he said quietly, his tone softer than I had ever heard it. "Let it out. I've got you."
Tears pricked my eyes from the force of it all, and I could not tell if they were from the humiliation or his voice, low and rough, full of a patience I had never expected. He stayed there, silent except for those small reassurances, rubbing my back until the tremors eased and the sickness left me.
When it was over, I slumped forward, my forehead resting against my arm on the edge of the sink, trembling from exhaustion. My hair was still held back by his hand, his thumb unconsciously stroking just above my nape.
I hated myself for it, but that touch, even now, even like this, was the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.
He reached for a damp cloth and pressed it into my hands, his voice low but steady. "Rinse your mouth. Take your time."
I did, my face burning, and when I dared to glance at him, I found him still crouched there, his ruined suit forgotten, his eyes on me, not cold, not mocking. Just steady.
And somehow, that was worse.
Because I did not know how to hate him when he was like this.
Trey opened the wardrobe with a smooth motion, and for a moment I forgot how to breathe. My humiliation from the bathroom still clung to me like a second skin, but watching him there, tall, composed, utterly unshaken by the disaster I had just caused, only made the ache sharper.
His hand slid along the row of dresses, pausing on one. My stomach sank when I saw it, pale silk, soft and familiar, almost identical to the one I had worn the night he found me in the kitchen. The night he cornered me with cold reprimands, with words that cut me deeper than any knife.
I wanted to tell him not that one, anything but that one. But before I could, he pulled it from the hanger and held it out to me.
"This will do."
His voice was neutral and unreadable. He did not smirk. He did not comment. He simply placed the dress into my trembling hands.
My heart squeezed painfully as I took it. This time, he was not there to reprimand me. This time, he was handing me my dignity back, in the smallest, strangest way.
And then, to my absolute shock, he turned his back. Slowly and deliberately, he gave me privacy.
I stared at the broad line of his shoulders, the tension in them, the way his hands curled loosely at his sides as if he had to remind himself to stay still. For once, Trey was not watching me like a hawk, waiting for me to stumble. He was shielding me.
With shaky fingers, I slipped out of my ruined dress and pulled the silk nightdress over my skin. It clung cool against me, whispering over every curve, the fabric too soft for the heaviness still lodged in my chest. I wrapped myself in the robe quickly, as if covering up the ache itself, and sat on the edge of the bed.
"I… thank you, Trey. And I am"
He cut me off before I could finish.
"Get some sleep, Amara." His voice had changed, clipped and cold again, as if he had remembered himself. "I don't want you late tomorrow. We only have a few days left before the wedding, and Pauline doesn't need to worry about a single detail."
He did not even look at me. He just turned, his face a mask, and walked to the door.
The soft thud of it closing behind him was louder than a slam.
I sat frozen on the bed, staring at the empty space where he had stood, the silk of the nightdress heavy against my skin. My heart ached so fiercely it felt like it might split apart.
How pathetic was I? That a moment of kindness, his hands steadying me at the sink, his voice soft as he told me to breathe, his back turned so I could dress, was enough to unravel me. Enough to make me want to believe there was more in him than cruelty.
But I knew better. I had to.
I pressed a hand to my chest, as if I could still the traitorous beating beneath my ribs. You are just the wedding planner, I told myself. Not the bride. Never the bride.
The robe's belt cinched tight around my waist, but it could not hold me together. Tears welled hot in my eyes, and I blinked them back, furious at myself for being so weak, so willing to fall for scraps.
In Trey's world, I would never be anything more than the maid's daughter. And no matter how my heart betrayed me, I had to remember that.
Still, when I lay back against the pillows, the cedar and musk of his scent still clung faintly to my robe, and it undid me all over again.