“Toby!” he shouts, though I somehow get the feeling that’s his normal speaking volume.

  “Father,” Tobias says, taking a big breath that feels like he’s fortifying himself. “Glad to see you made it.” He sounds quite the opposite, actually.

  The man reaches out a hand to me and I take it. “I’m Autumn, nice to meet you.”

  Instead of answering me, the man speaks to Tobias as he clearly looks me up and down, undressing me with his eyes. “Isn’t she quite fit? Good for you, my boy. And a fire crotch at that!”

  “Excuse me?” I exclaim, ripping my hand from his.

  Tobias, I’m about to kick your dad in the balls if you don’t do something!

  I shoot the message, loud and clear, with my eyes to Tobias. Judging by his expression, he hears me and isn’t the least bit surprised by his father’s outburst.

  I remember hearing Tobias on the phone with his dad but had hoped that was some version of ‘guy locker room talk’. I can’t believe his dad is actually saying these things out loud to me. Well, not to me, but about me to Tobias right in front of me as though I can’t hear or process well enough to be offended.

  “Da! You can’t say things like that,” Tobias scolds.

  Not looking sorry at all, his father holds his hands up. “Just joking. Geesh, take a joke, my boy. I’m just chuffed you’ve found a girlfriend. Not easy when you’re a lackey for the Corbin boy, is it?” He holds his finger and thumb an inch apart, showing me exactly what he thinks of Tobias and his role at House Corbin. “He’s just a wee lap dog.”

  “Actually, I find Tobias to be quite the linchpin of House Corbin. I’m here as a designer for the competition, and he’s been instrumental in making sure that all five of us are comfortable and have everything we need, professionally and personally.” I add as much sex to the phrasing as I can, imbuing my words with the Jessica Rabbit style of my gown’s inspiration.

  Is what I said the truth? Absolutely.

  Am I making it sound quite more scandalous than it is? Also yes.

  But it’s for Tobias’s sake. I don’t know what it would take to impress his dad because I cannot fathom a person who thinks the way he does. But at the end of the day, Tobias has been a good friend to me over the last few weeks and I have his back.

  “What?” his father roars, his chest puffing up with pride. “Is that so, my boy?”

  “Is he for real?” I say to Tobias, using eye-communication again.

  He replies with a look of his own that says, “You have no idea!”

  “Da, can we talk?” Tobias says quietly, leading his father off to the side, away from the majority of the crowd.

  “Sure, sure.”

  “I think you’ve known for a long time that I’m not who you’d like me to be—”

  Oh, shit! Is Tobias doing this now? Here? I’m one hundred percent for owning your truth and living it loudly, but given the present company of industry insiders, I don’t think this is in Tobias’s best interests.

  “Uh, Tobias . . .” I say, placing a hand on his forearm.

  He looks my way, a sadness in his eyes that breaks my heart. He knows what he’s doing and what’s going to happen when he does it. But truth is more important than the lie his dad wants to believe.

  I make to move away, giving them some privacy for this family conversation, but Tobias takes my hand. And if he wants my support, I’m here to give it. And maybe get that ball kick in on his dad if the situation calls for it, which I fully expect to happen.

  “Autumn is my friend. Nothing more, nothing less. I don’t have a girlfriend, have never had one, in fact. Because . . .” He meets his dad’s eyes boldly, not flinching in the slightest. “I like men, Da.”

  The moment freezes. Other than Tobias squeezing my hand and me squeezing his back, there’s nothing. Then, his dad starts to laugh raucously. “Good one, boy. You almost had me there.” He’s laughing so hard that he’s slapping his knee, his belly drooping down and jiggling. “My boy, gay. Pshaw.”

  Tobias and I meet eyes and shrug. Tobias tries again. “Seriously. My longest relationship was with a fellow named Marquis. We lived together for nearly three years.”

  It’s sinking in as Tobias speaks, and his dad realizes that this isn’t some elaborate joke and there is no punchline.

  “What?” he hisses, looking around as though someone here might overhear and judge Tobias. If anything, they’d judge his father. This is fashion, after all, and for the most part, we’re an accepting bunch. “No son of mine—”

  Whatever hateful thing Tobias’s father was about to say is cut off by Simon coming up behind us. Simon throws one arm over my shoulder and the other over Tobias’s, his head popping into the space between us. And then he plants a big one on Tobias’s cheek as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Hey, what’d you think of the auction?”

  Tobias’s father is sputtering, his mouth opening and closing like a fish pleading for water. His eyes jump from Tobias to Simon to me, and then back again, bugging out more and more.

  “What in the bloody ’ell?” roars Tobias’s dad.

  That definitely grabs everyone’s attention, and his dad does not want that, nor people seeing Simon with his arm around Tobias.

  “Boy, if this is the way you want it,” he snarls, looking on the verge of an angry heart attack, “then you can fuck off.” He whirls, storming off.

  “Holy shit,” I whisper as I watch the man go. He’s stomping through the garden, people hopping out of his way as he gets close to them. I realize Tobias is watching his father leave too. “I’m so sorry, Tobias.”

  He turns, and I realize that Simon still has one arm over each of our shoulders, his grin savage. “No need to thank me, man.”

  “What the hell?” Tobias stammers. “I mean, thank you . . . I think, but . . . why?”

  “Because you’re my friend. As I was walking up, I could hear what was going on, and I know what you’ve said about your dad. I figured I could help him come to terms with it a little quicker.” Simon’s idea was right, but damn, that’s some ballsy support to a friend in the middle of a gala with photographers everywhere.

  Simon winks and then grabs Tobias’s shoulders, shaking him wildly as he shouts, “We did it, man! The kids are going to be so happy! Tonight’s the best!” He grabs my champagne and tosses it back in one go before turning around and holding up the empty glass triumphantly. “Thank you, everyone!”

  People who had been watching as though they couldn’t turn away from a train wreck are already changing their tune. Simon Corbin kissing Tobias’s cheek just went from scandalous to a drunken celebration of a good turnout for a great cause. They hold their flutes up in response, and conversation returns to normal. Or as normal as it gets around here.

  Back to us, Simon says in his completely sober voice, “Hope I didn’t go too far?”

  Tobias smiles back, his eyes glassy. “Thank you.”

  “Well, I feel a bit like a third wheel,” I tease, “so if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to run to the ladies’ room.”

  “Come back,” Simon tells me, not hiding the heat in the command.

  I look at him sharply and then to Tobias, who is grinning in recognition.

  I make my way to the restroom, thinking about that. I don’t really want to hide, and tonight’s proven that even more. Jacqueline is either going to have to accept that I have feelings for her nephew . . . or not. But we should definitely wait until after the competition finishes.

  I get to the washroom, where I really don’t have to do much, but it does give me a chance to calm myself and think. About Tobias, about Simon, and even about the fashion tonight.

  I know I might be a bit hypocritical, criticizing Dead Cat Lady for her fashion while at the same time saying I don’t give a damn about her judging me . . . but I feel deep down that it’s different. If Dead Cat Lady wants to dress like that, that’s her business.

  At the same time, I will defend Tobias against his father’s hate. Because that hate hurts. Dead Cat Lady’s fashion sense is just . . . clothing. But her commentary of Jeanette still rings in my ear, and I won’t support that type of degradation.

  That’s the key, I realize. Not to be Pollyanna about it, but I truly want people to feel good and to be empowered to be themselves. In life, and in my clothing, if they desire. That’s why Dead Cat Lady and Tobias’s father irritate me so much—they want a societal norm where everyone bends to the will of the few who decree what’s ‘right’ or ‘normal’, when there is no such thing. We’re all just . . . who we are.

  At peace with that thought for now, I leave the ladies’ room to head back to Simon and Tobias in the garden. I’m just about to enter the ballroom when I run into Tristan, literally, as he comes around the corner. “Oh! Tristan! Sorry!”

  “Mademoiselle Autumn,” he says, looking me in the eyes. “You are very beautiful tonight.”

  “Thank you. You look handsome.”

  Tristan reaches for my cheek, his intent to kiss me clear, and I take a step back. “Tristan . . . you misunderstand. I’m not interested in you that way.”

  “It’s Simon, isn’t it?” he rumbles, his voice darkening. “Of course it is.”

  I’m surprised at his turn of mood and try to smooth things over. “Simon put this together for you guys. It looked like you were having fun?”

  “Merde,” Tristan growls, stepping closer to me again. “He has . . . everything. This made him look good. You think I’m a dog at . . . fourrière. Tomorrow, I will be back in rags, getting harassed by the police again. The money won’t even go to us. Just make House Corbin look good, probably buy him a new Bugatti.”

  There’s so much hurt and rage in his voice, and while I don’t know what a fourrière is, I get Tristan’s point. What is in Tristan’s past that hurt him so deeply that he can’t see how much Simon cares for him, for all of the boys at the orphanage?

  “Simon does care.”

  His bitter laugh is loud in the narrow hallway, and I start to feel afraid for my safety. My years in New York have taught me a lot, and I start to look for exit points, other guests, and assess my weapons, which are mostly my hands, elbows, and knees. In the background of my head, I replay self-defense videos while watching Tristan carefully, praying it doesn’t come to that.

  “You believe that? He has so much practice on girls. Can make a girl like you believe anything,” he spits out, looking me up and down. “Simon cares about looks and himself. I see the truth.”

  Keep him talking, Autumn. “Then why are you here? Why did you come if you think Simon is a fraud?”

  Tristan stabs a finger toward the garden, his face flushing with anger. “Because those boys are my friends. Only friends I have. I protect them, and they don’t see the truth yet. But I’ll be here when they do.” He pounds a fist to his chest with a thwack. “All of this is fake. All of it. You don’t see it either, do you?”

  “Tristan, listen to me,” I tell him gently, trying to reach him through his rage and resentment. “I’m sorry. I don’t know your past or why you feel the way you do. But yes, many of those people are fake. Simon isn’t, though. I hope . . . I hope you can see that he does care.”

  Tristan’s face trembles, and I can see the tears of anger and hurt in his eyes. “It’s not fair!”

  “No, it’s not. Tristan—”

  “Non! One time, just one fucking time!” he snarls, tears slipping down his cheeks. But he’s backed me up against the wall—literally—and he pounds a fist against it, just over my head. “One time, I want something nice like Simon! He doesn’t know what he has! He can have a pretty girl every week, every night! He gets anything, everything! Like that!” He snaps his fingers, and I flinch.

  Tristan leans toward me again, as though he’s going to kiss me. I’ve been dealing with him as though Tristan is a boy in need of help, sympathizing with his pain. But the reality is . . . he’s a young man who’s much larger than I am and who’s lashing out in anger, and I’m the only target in front of him.

  “Tristan . . . no. Please, no!” I push at his chest, lifting my knee.

  But it’s too late.

  A presence emerges behind Tristan, filling the hallway. In a single movement, he grabs Tristan and pulls him away from me, shoving him down the hallway.

  It’s then that I realize it’s Simon, and he is furious. He steps into Tristan, grabbing his shirt and twisting it in his fist. Though Tristan is slightly taller than Simon, it’s obvious who will win this battle. “You will never touch her!” he growls, his French so tinged with anger I can barely understand him. “Never!”

  “I . . . I wasn’t going to hurt her!” Tristan says, trying to peel Simon’s hand off his shirt, but Simon’s grip is iron hard. “Simon—”

  “I trusted you! I gave you my time, my brotherhood!” Simon continues. “I put myself out there for you, and this is how you . . .” I lose some of the words, but I get the gist. This is how you repay me.

  Tristan sobs, and I step forward, putting my hand on Simon’s forearm. “Simon.” When he doesn’t let go, I sharpen my tone. “Simon! Let go. He’s a boy. A scared and angry boy. He needs love, not violence.”

  I can see it. Tristan is big—a young man in truth—but he’s also a boy. A boy who’s never known love, kindness, or acceptance. A boy who’s raging against the hand he was dealt and feels like Simon was given the winning lottery ticket out of hell at a time when he’s getting shoved out the door of the only home he’s known and into an even worse existence of post-orphanage life. It doesn’t excuse what Triston’s done, not in the slightest. And there will need to be consequences, but not this. Not a beating at the hand of the one person who’s shown him kindness. I’m afraid that would only reaffirm Tristan’s trust issues.

  Simon’s eyes cut to me, and for a moment I’m worried, but Simon lets go, shoving Tristan back. “Go! Get out of here!”

  Tristan stumbles backward, his eyes shooting fiery, pain-filled hate. He smooths the wrinkles of his shirt harshly with his palms and then spits out something in French that I think roughly means ‘fake’ before turning and storming off.

  Simon grabs my hand, pulling me down the hallway the opposite way from where Tristan went. He tries a door, growling when he finds it’s locked.

  “Simon?” I ask, not sure what’s going on.

  He was so angry. I really thought he might hit Tristan. Not that Tristan didn’t deserve it, but still . . .

  On the third try, Simon finds an unlocked door and pushes me inside, slamming the door shut behind us. He’s panting hard, and when he flicks on the light, I can see that his eyes are bright and wild, and we’re in some sort of small linen closet.

  “Simon?”

  CHAPTER 22

  SIMON

  My pulse pounds in my temples, my rage barely held back by more pressing matters such as Autumn’s safety. When I came around that corner with plans to surprise Autumn and heard her plea of ‘no’, I saw red. My vision actually blurred, and while I’ve never been one for violence, I very nearly hit Tristan. I could’ve beat the shit out him for what he was doing . . . or trying to do.

  I have to remember that. He tried. I stopped him, but I need to be sure.

  I push Autumn into the first available room that I can find and then face her. I force myself to gentle my touch to cup her cheeks in my palms. “Did he hurt you? Are you okay?” I bite out, holding onto myself with sheer will.

  She lays her hands over my forearms, her eyes imploring mine to hear her. “I’m okay. He didn’t hurt me, just . . . scared me.” The confession feels forced, like she didn’t want to tell me but it slipped out anyway.

  “Ah, Princesse, no one is to touch you. No one but me.” The proclamation is a bit caveman-ish, I admit. But I feel quite like a Neanderthal. I need to mark her, wipe away any trace of Tristan’s touch. I swipe my thumb over her bottom lip—a lip he wanted to steal from me—watching the plump flesh bend to my touch.

  I growl when Autumn opens her mouth for me, her tongue sneaking out to lick the pad of my thumb. “I need you. Now. Here.”

  My words have regressed to caveman grunts, but it’s all I can manage.

  “Simon?” she questions, unsure. But I would never hurt her.

  “Trust me. Turn around.” I wrap her waist in my hands, spinning her in place and putting her back to my front. With my hand wrapped around her neck, I tilt her head back so I can whisper in her ear. “Can I have you?”

  I feel her thick swallow beneath my palm. “Yes,” she whispers on a breath. “Always.”

  Unleashed, I gather her dress in my hands, pulling it up to reveal the full curves of her ass, which is split by the thin fabric of her thong. I grip her, massaging the flesh roughly. “Fuck, Princesse.”

  She bends forward, her hands going to a shelf for support. With my eyes on the curves that haunt my thoughts, both awake and asleep, I reach for my belt. Thankfully, I left my jacket on a chair outside so that’s one less piece I have to move to get at Autumn. With my pants and underwear shoved halfway down my thighs, I pull her thong to the side and position myself at her entrance.

  I thrust powerfully into her, and she cries out at the invasion, though she’s already wet for me. I do it again, stroking deep and hard, and this time, Autumn bucks her hips, fucking me back.

  We’re pounding each other, my hips slapping her ass, which bounces with every thrust.

  “Simon . . . slower . . . it’s okay,” she murmurs. The words come out with each pant as I continue to fill her.

  No! I don’t want slow, I want to claim her body fiercely, remind us both of who she belongs to. But I pause, breathing to calm myself, knowing that my adrenaline is still racing from seeing Autumn in danger.

  I stroke in again, this time more slowly, and when I’m deep, I grind there and vow, “I will be rough when you want rough and gentle when you want gentle. Because you are mine.”