“Say it again,” he murmurs, amused. “Deliberate, not?—”
“Desperate.”
He leans in and kisses me, the taste of whiskey on his tongue sliding against mine with a perfect certainty. When he pulls back, I’m drunk on nothing but him.
“Remember, tonight I will be introducing you as my girlfriend. Smile. Keep your hand on my arm. Speak only when I say to. If I say quiet, you are quiet. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He offers his arm. “Let’s go.”
The villa ballroom has been transformed into a beautiful winter cathedral. Glass chandeliers drip light over gorgeous garlands. A string quartet hides in the balcony, pouring Christmas music over the scene. A tall tree stands at the far end, ornamented to perfection. The floor is filled with guests, some notorious, some famous, some a little of both.
I feel eyes on us the second we step in. My spine goes straight on instinct. Damien’s hand rests at the small of my back.Girlfriend.The word clicks around the room with the stealth of a rumor. I keep my smile, mind my posture, and try to stay focused on the rules. In my head, I’m counting down the hours until Clara is out of surgery.
There’s a man posted by one of the stone pillars. His posture says plainclothes cop. I haven’t met Alex Durov, but I know that’s him. He’s staked where he can see doors, elevators, and every smile pretending to be harmless. His gaze sweeps across the room, landing on Damien, the exits, then me. He holds for a beat. A cop’s once-over, quick and complete, like he’s taking my measurements for a file.
Damien follows my gaze. “Alex Durov. You’ll meet him soon. He’s a trusted ally.”
“Got it.”
“And his brother, Ivan,” Damien adds, nodding subtly toward the crowd.
I feel him before I spot him. He’s halfway to drunk, leaning on a Velvet Ledger hostess—what my job with Damien was originally meant to be. Another hostess laughs too loudly at something he says. He seems to know how to be charming when he wants to be.
“Ivan is a different matter. Now, eyes forward.”
“Eyes,” I echo, locking them straight ahead.
People come. People go. Names attach to faces I’ve seen and heard before. Damien shakes hands, introducing me with a lift in his tone that reads “mine” to anyone listening. I meet eyes, smile pleasantly, say hello, and nothing more.
Precision.It’s easier than I thought it would be.
We make a slow circuit toward the tree. I smell champagne, perfume, and a hint of cigar that someone slipped through. He rests his hand on mine when a man I don’t recognize stares toolong at me. The look Damien gives him is a cold warning. The man seems to instantly remember his place.
The temperature drops ten degrees when I hear, “Darling.”
Raquel Chesterfield steps up to us. Blonde hair falling in perfect waves, tight black dress hugging every curve, ice-blue eyes that know how to find a camera, finding Damien instead. She glides with the confidence of someone used to owning a room.
“It’s been too long,” she tells Damien, lips curving into a lustful grin.
“Miss Chesterfield,” he greets. It’s polite with zero warmth.
“MissChesterfield?” she purrs. “Please. Is that any way to speak to someone you used to be so very close with?”
Her gaze flicks to me and narrows, cataloging. Recognition lands—the boutique. The way her mouth curves says she remembers me carrying dresses and steaming sleeves.
“And you,” she says. “I know you.”
“I work at Thierry. We’ve met.”
“Worked,” Damien corrects gently. “She’s on leave.”
“On leave,” Raquel repeats. “Interesting.” Her lashes drop, giving Damien a once-over. “I was just telling somebody the other day how no one can wear a suit like you do.”
Damien’s hand presses at my back. “Cassandra is my girlfriend.”
The word snaps in the air. Conversations nearby hiccup then continue with new volume. Raquel’s smile doesn’t change on the surface, but something behind it does.
