26. Braken

I didn't expect much based on the photo in his background check, but Marco is even less intimidating in person.

This is the asshole I've been worried about?

He looks like he's playing dress-up with his daddy's clothes. His suit and shoes are Italian made, no doubt a gift from Fiora herself, but he doesn't fill them out. Marco comes up to my Adam's apple, and his glare is weaker than a chihuahua. All bark and no bite. I've dealt with old Italian grannies with more spunk than him, and it's only been three minutes.

Fiora stares at me, her pretty brown eyes wide in shock. She looks absolutely ravishing in her green velvet dress, a little window in the fabric giving a perfect view of her cleavage. The buttoned collar and her high ponytail only accent how long her neck is.

Perfect for me to mark my territory since she's not wearing her fucking ring.

I turn back to Marco and offer a hand. "Braken Frost."

He takes it. Even his grip is weak. "Marco Pollozo."

"I know." I drop his hand like a hot potato. "I didn't expect a police officer to come to such an event. Did Fiora invite you?"

The anger that burned in my veins when I saw them together flares when Marco smirks. As soon as I set foot in my building's ballroom and saw them standing together, I slapped double the ticket price into the doorwoman's hand and stalked over.

Fiora meeting this bastard is one thing, but to do it in my own damn hotel? They have balls.

"Yes," Marco answers at the same time Fiora says, "No."

I regard her with a side-eye. She doesn't look pleased at his answer, her lips pursing in annoyance. So even Fiora doesn't want him here.

Time to take out the trash.

"I hope you enjoy tonight's festivities," I say to Marco with a bow of my head. "You probably won't be able to make it to many others."

"I'm sure I can," Marco shoots back, slamming the rest of his champagne and sliding the glass away. It tips over and falls against the white tablecloth. "The world is free after all."

"Yes, but money isn't, and my hotel is a bit out of your price range."

"Braken," Fiora scolds like my mother.

I turn to her with a shrug. "I'm being welcoming to your guest, Fiora." Then I turn back to Marco and fish into the inner pocket of my coat for my wallet. "Since you're here, you might as well drink on my behalf." I pull a business card out of it and hand it out to him. "Though I'm afraid a room is far out of your price range. There's a Motel 6 down the street though. I hear they leave the light on for you."

Fury lights up Marco's face, and he clenches his jaw so hard he might start shaking like a rabid dog. He snatches the card from my hand and crumples it in an angry fist. Fiora mutters under her breath but it's covered up by Marco's exaggerated movements as he pulls out a similar business card.

"Since you're so good at sharing," he mocks.

I glance down at the business card in his hand. Marco Pollozo, Assistant Chief of the Seattle Police Department, [email protected]. It doesn't offer me any information I didn't already know from his background check. I don't reach out to take it.

"I'm very selective on my sharing," I respond coolly, looking at Fiora. "And she is busy for the rest of the night, so why don't you run along now?"

"Are you going to let him treat me like this, Fiora?" Marco demands, gripping his business card so hard the paper looks about to rip in half. "Really?"

Fiora hesitates, glancing from me to Marco and back again before sighing.

"I'll call you when I'm ready, Marco. We need to talk, but this isn't the place."

"I see how it is." He slams his business card on the table before laughing, the sound full of venom. "I guess I'll wait for your call, Fiora."

Marco stalks off like a bull in a china shop. He barely avoids the event's photographers and a few attendants as he disappears outside. As soon as he's gone, Fiora exhales loudly and turns to me.

"Did you enjoy your dickwagging contest?"

"It ended a bit prematurely," I answer with a grin. Her eyes only narrow at my joke. I lean over her to pick up Marco's business card, look at it for another second, then throw it away to be forgotten. "I was doing you a favor, you know. You looked like you didn't want him around."

"I don't want you around either," she hisses before moving to go. "If you'll excuse me."

"Is that how you're going to treat your fiancé?" I ask.

She pauses mid-step and turns back to me. Her gaze is calculating, bouncing from my hands and back up again, but she doesn't say anything. I lean against the table with an elbow and a smirk. "Or have you forgotten who you belong to, since you refuse to wear your goddamn ring?"

Fiora fishes into the window of fabric on her chest. From the right side of her bra, she pulls out the engagement ring on a thin chain. Her eyes don't leave mine as she tucks it back and hides it away like it's some dirty secret.

"Tonight, I'm not Fiora Godwin, so don't bother calling me that name."

I don't follow her at first. She stalks over to the auction goods, where she keeps her back to me as she studies them. What the hell does she mean she's not Fiora Godwin? Who else would she be? Curiosity keeps me rooted to that table, watching her linger around all the prizes. She is particularly interested in and even signs her name on two of them: a huge gift basket of spa items that is full of pink fuzzy shit and a signed picture of Barry Manilow. I don't take her for the type to enjoy ballads. But then again, I didn't take her as the type to come to a charity auction either. There's a reason she insists on being here and pretends to be something she's not.

"The auction will close in five minutes! Everyone, place your last bids to win your prizes!" one of the hosts announces.

This causes a tidal wave of people running toward the back of the room. Most auctions I've attended are the silent type with constant bids, but this one seems more low-key and basic, with people signing up via a list. The crowd murmurs excitedly as they place their last bids, but people glance at the list for the gift bag and picture and pointedly walk away. Has Fiora placed a bid on those? And how much did she put down?

Once the five minutes are up, the ballroom's lights dim, and the doorwoman takes the stage. She's changed into a sequined dress reminiscent of a disco ball, a pair of huge aviators on her face. She pulls them off and throws them toward the crowd with a loud cheer like she's pumping up a concert and not a group full of rich donors.

"Welcome everyone and thank you for your generous donations to the Kids Crisis Center! I would go on and say how much this all means to us, but I'm sure you're all here for one thing."

My one thing stands by a table at the front and politely laughs at the lame joke.

"Well, let's get to it! First prize—a beautiful 1950s candelabra—goes to…"

I keep staring at Fiora, sure she'll turn to me, but she doesn't. She claps when the winners of their bids take the stage with a cheer, show off their loot, and leave the stage.

"And the third prize—an amazing bath set—goes to…"

Fine. I've been more than accommodating to her bullshit so far, but I've had about enough. She's not going to come into my damn hotel and ignore me like I'm that prick Marco.

I start to head toward her when the host laughs.

"Braken Frost!"

I pause mid step and turn toward her with a confused look. The fuck? I sure as hell didn't bid on anything here, let alone a bath set. The entire thing looks like a unicorn vomited into a wicker basket and wrapped it in a pretty pastel-pink bow. The only thing I can see clearly is a large, fuzzy pink robe and matching slippers.

"Everyone, please give a hand for Mr. Frost! He graciously let us use his hotel for this event and has bought this item for $5,000!"

I sure the fuck did not. I'm about to shout that someone is playing a practical joke when the slightest movement catches my eye. Fiora is laughing behind a champagne flute, and when she notices me staring, she wiggles her fingers in a small wave.

That little minx.

If she wants to play games, we can play games.

I fix my tie, take the stage, and accept the spa basket. It contains a few bath bombs, some facemasks, a bar of dollar store soap, and those little candles that can float on water. If Fiora thinks she's embarrassed me, she has another think coming.

"Can I say a few words?" I ask the host with a smile. "Only a few seconds."

"Of course, of course!"

She holds the microphone up to my lips to let me speak. I turn to the small crowd, making sure to smile for the photographer who takes my picture.

"I'm sure it looks strange for me to be standing here with a robe that's about two sizes too small. It is my color, though." I wait for the chuckles to subside before I continue. "But this gift is actually for the future Mrs. Frost. I'm sure she'll love it."

A few gasps rise from the crowd with murmurs of excitement. The cameras keep flashing as I head off stage holding the godforsaken gift basket. Fiora stares at me dumbfounded as I pass her table, but I don't look her way. I haven't said her name, and I haven't even looked at her. If she plays her cards right, no one will know it's her. But if she messes up, her little secret is out of her own accord.

I return to the empty table where I stood previously and set down the gift basket. Fiora glares at me from across the room, but this time, I'm the one ignoring her. This game is fun for me. I love seeing the fire in her eyes, especially when it's directed at me. The last time it happened, my dick was in her mouth, and I certainly won't mind it happening again.

"And now for the signed Barry Manilow picture, coming in at a whopping $5,000! Congratulations Amy Fitzgerald!"

No one moves or comes up to claim their prize. That's the item Fiora wrote down for, but she doesn't move a muscle. Who the hell is Amy Fitzgerald?

"Amy Fitzgerald, are you here?"

I fish the burner phone out of my pocket and shoot off a text to Nexxor. Look up Amy Fitzgerald while you're at it. Give me the info in five minutes.

You're lucky I'm at my computer, the answer comes soon after.

"Maybe Amy is too busy listening to Barry Manilow songs in her car to claim her prize?" the host jokes. "You know, my dad took me to one of his shows in Vegas when I was younger, and…"

The phone buzzes in my hand as the host rambles about her memories.

No registered Amy Fitzgerald in Seattle. Did find the name on a few websites though. Here you go. Add it to the tab.

I open the attachment Nexxor sent. It's a small list of dates and charities spanning back two years. Every charity is different, and every one is worth $10,000.

"I guess we'll move on if Amy isn't coming!"

Amy won't be coming because Amy doesn't fucking exist. It's Fiora Godwin. What was it her dad said at our engagement dinner?

As soon as you're married, her $10,000-a-month allowance is your problem. That's a lot of shopping trips.

Except I've never seen her decked out in excessive jewelry. Her outfits are expensive but not $10,000-a-month expensive. She looks hot as fuck, but her hair and nails aren't done ever, and she doesn't carry name brand purses. But even if she did, that's a drop in the bucket for 120,000-fucking-dollars a year. Not to mention that she practically lives in poverty in Heathens Hollow and was working catering gigs to pay for it. I questioned where all the monthly money was going…

Is she really giving away that entire stack of cash to charity every damn month? And why doesn't she do it under her own name?

I weave through the clapping crowd until I'm at Fiora's side.

"I underestimated you." I have gotten her completely wrong. I assumed she was a spoiled rich girl. Just another Godwin, and yet…

She glances up at me, cheeks rosy with drink and eyes shimmering with curiosity.

"You know, when you swallowed my cum, you called me a good boy, but I could say the same about you."

Her cheeks only grow more red. "What are you talking about?"

"You're the good girl, Fiora Godwin. Or should I call you Amy Fitzgerald? Maybe even Mother Teresa?"

The crowd keeps clapping as we stare at each other, each refusing to be the one to break.