Playing Pretend

The Cross ancestral estate in Westchester was a majestic stone manor set upon thirty rolling acres of manicured gardens and ancient oak trees, overlooking the Hudson River.

As the black Maybach pulled up the gravel driveway, Mia smoothed down the skirt of her navy silk A-line dress—a tasteful, elegant piece Ethan's personal stylist had delivered that morning. On her left ring finger sat an antique platinum band set with a modest, exquisite two-carat emerald-cut diamond.

"It belonged to my mother," Ethan had told her in the car when he slid the ring onto her finger. His touch had been reverent, almost gentle. "Rose will recognize it immediately. Keep your hand visible."

Ethan climbed out, walked around the car, and opened Mia's door. As she stepped onto the gravel, his large, warm hand slipped around hers, his fingers lacing naturally through hers.

"Ready?" he asked quietly, looking down at her.

"Ready," Mia whispered, squeezing his hand.

Inside the grand conservatory, eighty guests in black tie and formal cocktail attire were sipping vintage Dom Pérignon beneath crystal chandeliers. When Ethan and Mia entered, the conversational hum died down like a switched-off radio.

Every eye turned to the woman on the arm of New York's most elusive bachelor.

"Ethan, darling!"

An elderly woman in an elegant violet velvet pantsuit seated in an antique wingback chair beckoned with a diamond-clad hand. She had silver hair swept into a regal chignon, piercing blue eyes identical to Ethan's, and an expression that missed absolutely nothing.

Grandma Rose.

Ethan's entire demeanor transformed. The cold, unyielding titan vanished, replaced by an affectionate grandson as he dropped to one knee beside the chair, kissing Rose's paper-thin cheek.

"Happy birthday, Grandma," Ethan murmured softly.

"Get up, you giant tree, and let me look at the girl who finally domesticated you," Rose ordered with a raspy chuckle, turning her sharp gaze upon Mia.

Mia stepped forward, her heart pounding. She didn't offer a rehearsed, deferential high-society greeting. She dropped to one knee beside Rose's chair, taking the elderly woman's frail hands into her own warm, chef-calloused palms.

"It's an honor to meet you, Mrs. Cross," Mia said with sincere warmth. "Ethan talks about you constantly. He told me you're the only person who can put him in his place in under three sentences."

Rose looked down at Mia's hands, noticing the small burn scars on her forearms from hot restaurant pans, then up into Mia's open, warm brown eyes. Her gaze dropped to the diamond ring, and Rose's eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

"My Elizabeth's ring," Rose whispered, touching the platinum setting. She looked up at Ethan with fierce pride. "You found a real girl, Ethan. Not another hollow clothes hanger like that Drake creature."

Rose turned back to Mia, smiling warmly. "Call me Grandma, child. And tell me—is it true you make him eat actual vegetables?"

"I made him eat roasted asparagus on Tuesday, Grandma," Mia grinned conspiratorially. "He looked like he was swallowing broken glass, but he finished the plate."

Rose burst into a delighted laugh that echoed through the conservatory, drawing warm smiles from the nearby relatives.

Across the room, standing beside a limestone fireplace, a tall woman in an emerald Givenchy gown watched them with narrowed, venomous green eyes.

Vanessa Drake.

Ethan felt Mia tense as her gaze landed on the ex-fiancée. His arm slid around Mia's waist, pulling her flush against his side. He leaned down, pressing a lingering, tender kiss against Mia's temple in full view of Vanessa and sixty socialites.

"Breathe, wife," Ethan murmured against her hair, his breath warm and intoxicating. "You're doing magnificent."

Mia leaned into his solid warmth, realizing with a jolt of panic that pretending to love Ethan Cross was becoming dangerously easy.