He studies me a second too long, his scrutiny just a little too sharp. Anxiety flips in my stomach. Did he catch me staring at the Barkov heir? I force myself to appear calm and casual.Really, Dad, I’m fine. Tired. Long day.I need him to believe that.
When his expression finally eases, I let myself breathe.
“I was saying that you did well in the day’s meetings,” he says.
“Oh. Thanks.” Heat creeps into my cheeks before I can stop it. I hate that I glow under his praise when guilt’s already twisting in my gut. All of these smiles, nods, and the illusion of loyalty are temporary. Once graduation comes, I’m gone.
I glance up from the roll I’ve been buttering and find Vince watching me. His eyes are dark, flinty, and gleaming with a devious light. He’s plotting; I can feel it. His attention makes my skin crawl.
The table tonight is just the four of us, plus three of Dad’s top men and their wives. The wives are polite and quiet. I’ve met them before outside of this; they can be warm, even kind. But in this setting, everything is Formal. Stiff. Like we’re actors reading our lines at a play no one enjoys.
It makes the whole dinner feel unbearably awkward. I want to crawl out of my own skin, just to feel something different.
Anxiety sparks in my chest, hot and consuming. I want to excuse myself, slip upstairs, curl up with a book, and disappear.
The confidence I had earlier? Gone.
Slipped away like sand through my fingers.
Now I’m nothing more than a dressed-up doll, smiling when expected, nodding on cue, hoping no one sees how out of place I feel.
Four painfully slow courses later, I’ve barely eaten, and my sense of fight or flight fills my ears with a rushing sound that makes it hard even to pretend to be part of conversations about Russian expansion and territory negotiations.
I’m beyond grateful when the music starts and Trace finds me immediately, eager to beat the line he thinks will form for opportunities to dance with me.
My father shakes Trace’s hand and nods his approval, and I let Trace lead me out onto the dance floor. A few other couples are already swaying, the music dated and stiff.
We do an awkward turn, his hand resting lightly at the small of my back, the other holding mine at shoulder height. He maintains a polite two-inch buffer between us, which I appreciate.
I study him as we move. A spray of freckles dots his nose and cheekbones, softening his features, giving him a boyish edge. One of his teeth is slightly crooked. He talks about his work in IT security, noting that his father oversees cybersecurity for Campisi, and that he’s training to take over when his father retires.
Trace is older than I expected. Thirty-two. A full decade ahead of me, and it shows. He carries himself with more maturity than the other one—Luke, or Lucas, or whatever his name was.
I like that about him.
But as we move across the floor, polite and pleasant, I feel nothing. No spark. No heat. Not even the whisper of interest.
Nothing at all.
“This must be awkward for you,” Trace says as we dance.
“Why so?”
“The whole arranged marriage thing?”
“Well,” I reply, keeping my tone light, “I haven’t been betrothed, at least not to my knowledge. My father gave me a dossier with five profiles, but I’m not required to choose any of you. So really, it’s more awkward for you than for me. I’m not the one doing a dog-and-pony show like some weird reality dating show.”
He barks a laugh. “Good answer.”
I roll my eyes, already done with the conversation.
Then a large hand lands on Trace’s shoulder—a looming shadow behind him.
“Can I cut in?”
Trace turns, eyes widening as he recognizes him. “You’re?—”
“Nikolai Ivanov. Reapers winger,” Nik says flatly. “And no, I won’t take a selfie with you. Now, can I cut in?”
