Spark Me Tenderly: Before Him

Chapter 18

The gala is everything I hate distilled into one glittering evening.

Chandeliers drip crystal tears over crowds of people who smile while mentally calculating net worth. Champagne flows like water, conversations flow like sewage, and everyone here would sell their grandmother for the right introduction. I've attended hundreds of these events, and they never get less tedious.

But Floris is on my arm, and somehow that makes all of it bearable.

She's wearing the gown I bought her—ivory silk, simple but elegant, nothing like the overdone couture surrounding us. I'd added a delicate necklace, matching earrings, a bracelet that sparkles against her wrist. She'd protested everything, eyes going wide at price tags she wasn't supposed to see.

"This is too much," she'd insisted, pushing the jewelry box back toward me. "I can't accept this. It's basically a down payment on a house. A nice house. In a good neighborhood."

"It's a strategic investment," I'd told her. "You need to look the part."

"Strategic investment," she'd repeated flatly. "Is that billionaire code for 'I have more money than sense'?"

She didn't understand that this cost me nothing. That I could drape her in diamonds daily and never notice the expense. That I'd happily adorn her in jewelry if it’s the only thing she would wear in front of me—a thought I wisely kept to myself.

The drive over had been a crash course in surviving Harrison Finley. I'd explained how to address him, what topics to avoid, which smiles were genuine weapons and which were just regular weapons. She'd absorbed it all with nervous determination.

"So basically," she'd summarized, "don't mention politics, religion, or the fact that I serve drinks for a living. Got it. Very reassuring. I feel completely prepared and not at all like I'm walking into a lion's den wearing a meat dress."

"Just follow my lead," I'd said.

"You're insufferable, you know that? Truly, remarkably insufferable."

I hadn't disagreed. She'd called me insufferable again for not disagreeing. I'd almost smiled.

Now she's looking at the venue with barely concealed wonder—the vaulted ceilings, the orchestra, the ice sculptures that cost more than most people's monthly salaries. I watch her instead of the room, cataloging every reaction.

The arrangement was supposed to be theater. Six months of performance, then freedom. But somewhere along the way, the lines blurred until I couldn't find them anymore.

Looking at her now, I think maybe I've found something real. Maybe I won't have to lie to my grandfather about loving her—only about the circumstances. Harrison just needs to approve of her. That's the only obstacle left.

Her grip tightens on my arm, and I feel the nervousness radiating from her in waves.

"You look beautiful," I tell her quietly.

She reaches up and presses her palm to my forehead, brow furrowing with exaggerated concern. "Are you feeling okay? Do you have a fever? Should I call a doctor? Because you just said something nice, and that's clearly a symptom of serious illness."

"I'm capable of compliments."

"Since when? I've known you for months, and your idea of praise is not actively scowling." She grins, but some tension leaves her shoulders. "But thank you. You clean up pretty well yourself. Very intimidating. Very 'I own everything in this room including the people.'"

"I don't own the people. Just the building."

"Of course you do."

Harrison approaches within minutes—the man has never wasted time. He moves through the crowd like a shark through water, guests parting instinctively. Seventy-eight years old and still more commanding than men half his age.

"Maverick." His gaze shifts to Floris, assessing. "And this must be the young woman I've heard so much about."

"Grandfather, this is Floris Blossom." I keep my voice steady, my hand warm on her back. "Floris, my grandfather, Harrison Finley."

"It's wonderful to meet you, Mr. Finley," Floris says, her smile genuine even if her voice wavers. "Maverick speaks very highly of you."

"Does he." It's not a question. Harrison's attention hasn't wavered from her face. "Tell me, Miss Blossom, how exactly did you and my grandson meet?"

I step in smoothly, delivering the fairytale we'd rehearsed. "I've loved her longer than I let on. The other arrangements failed because of her—I couldn't commit to anyone else when she was already occupying every corner of my mind. We kept it quiet due to the employer-employee complications, but I'm done hiding."

Harrison's expression doesn't warm. "I see. And your education, Miss Blossom?"

"Community college," Floris answers honestly. "Hospitality management."

"Your family?"

"My mother's a nurse. Has been for twenty years. She's incredible at her job—the kind of nurse patients request by name."

"And your father?"

The question lands like a blade. I feel Floris stiffen almost imperceptibly beside me.

"Dead," she says simply. "For a long time now."

Harrison's silence speaks volumes. I can read every thought crossing his face—the calculations, the disappointments, the careful reassessment of his grandson's judgment.

"Interesting," he says finally. "You know, Maverick, Priscilla Harrington is here tonight. Such a lovely girl. So accomplished. I believe you two were quite close once."

My stomach drops through the marble floor. He’s not even subtle about it—of course, why would he, he’s never known the word.

Before I can respond, Priscilla materializes as if summoned. Polished, pedigreed, everything my grandfather has ever wanted for me wrapped in a designer gown. Corporate attorney now, partner track, the kind of success story Harrison collects like trophies.

"Maverick." She greets me with a kiss on the cheek, her hand lingering on my arm just long enough to stake a claim. "It's been too long. You look wonderful."

Her gaze slides to Floris, and the condescension is barely veiled. "And who's this?"

"Floris Blossom," I say flatly. "My girlfriend."

"How charming." Priscilla's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "I didn't realize you were seeing anyone. Your grandfather certainly hasn't mentioned it."

Harrison clears his throat. "Maverick, a word? There are some business matters we should discuss. Priscilla, would you mind keeping Miss Blossom company?"

It's a deliberate move, and I realize it too late. Leaving Floris alone with Priscilla while Harrison delivers whatever verdict he's already reached. I catch Floris's eye, trying to communicate reassurance I don't feel.

Harrison guides me toward a quiet alcove, away from curious ears.

"She's not acceptable," he says without preamble. "A flight attendant, Maverick? Community college? A dead father you clearly know nothing about? This is beneath you."

"Grandfather—"

"Priscilla is willing. She's appropriate. She comes from the right family, has the right connections, understands our world." His voice drops lower, colder. "You have history together. That can be rebuilt."

"I don't want Priscilla. I want Floris."

"What you want is irrelevant. What matters is what's best for this family, for the company." Harrison's eyes bore into mine. "End this before it becomes a public embarrassment. The girl is a distraction, nothing more."

"She's not a distraction. She's—"

"Don't disappoint me, Maverick." His voice carries the weight of every expectation he's ever placed on my shoulders, cold and final. "You know what's at stake."

I do know. The company. The inheritance. Everything I've built, everything I've worked for. All of it balanced on this moment, on this choice. I look across the room to where Priscilla is speaking to Floris, that condescending smile still firmly in place. Floris is nodding politely, maintaining composure, but I can see the strain around her eyes.

She deserves better than this. Better than being evaluated like livestock at auction. But Harrison is waiting for an answer, and for the first time in my life, I don't have one.