The Billionaire's Offer

Chapter 23

Asher

James transformed what was supposed to be an intimate moment between Emma and me into an extravagant spectacle.

The rehearsal dinner he insisted on has unfolded like a grand circus, a parade featuring politicians, media moguls, and business tycoons strutting around as if competing in a peacock display.

Throughout dinner, a profound sense of detachment and disbelief invaded me. I could hardly muster more than a few words in the sea of pretentious small talk and forced smiles.

Amid the chaos, though, Emma stands out like a vision. Her gown, a shimmering midnight blue, hugs her like a second skin, captivating everyone in the room. Her hair, a dance of intricate curls, adds to the allure. Yet, beneath the glamour, a palpable tension lingers in her movements.

Max told me he heard James is planning to run for governor and things are finally starting to make sense. As a master puppeteer orchestrating this political performance, he's proudly parading Emma as a prized possession.

And God, she looks stunning. I can hardly believe we're getting married tomorrow. But there's something different with her today. She has always been against this kind of high-society charade, so I can't understand why she's easily playing the role of the perfect daughter.

The way she smiles, nods, and engages in pleasantries with everyone makes no sense. It's like she's embracing the charade her father has cooked up and is okay with pretending she's fine with this circus.

I've strategically distanced myself from James all night, opting to observe from the shadows. In contrast, Emma is just basking in the spotlight, a willing marionette in her father's elaborate show.

Throughout the night, we've exchanged only a few words and some fleeting glances—laden with unspoken questions and a yearning for a connection that this grandiose display seems determined to prevent.

But as the night wears on, my patience wears thin. The frustration within me reaches its peak, and at some point, I grab Emma's hand, pulling her into a quieter corner of the lavish ballroom.

"What the hell is going on, Emma?" I ask.

Her eyes reveal a mix of desperation and something indecipherable. "Asher, please, not now. I'll explain later."

"Later?" I frown. "This was supposed to be about us, about our damn wedding, not some show for the city's elite."

A wince crosses her face, and for a moment, I think I've struck a nerve. "I know, and I'm sorry, but my father—"

"Your father turned what was supposed to be an intimate moment between us into a goddamn show," I cut her off, frustration boiling within me.

Emma's eyes flicker with a hint of regret, swiftly replaced by composure. "I can't explain everything now, but I promise I'll talk to you later. Just not here."

"I can't believe you're embracing this whole charade," I mutter, irritation clear in every word. "You've always hated this whole high-society crap. And now you're eating it up, smiling for the cameras like you've been rehearsing this shit your whole life."

"Can we please go back inside?" She looks at me with a silent plea in her eyes, but the chaos surrounding us makes it challenging for me to think straight.

"Did you hear anything I've just said?" I search her eyes, but she just shakes her head and goes back to playing the perfect daughter, smiling for the cameras and eating up the attention.

Fuck! I let out a frustrated breath as I navigate through the sea of extravagantly dressed guests to get to the bar. I need a drink. Or maybe several. Anything to numb the indignation building up inside me.