I take my time walking over. Never known as a man who rushes with urgency. Let her wait with a belly full of unease.
When I finally stop in front of her, I see the exact moment she shifts, chin lifted slightly higher, shoulders pulled back. It would be a perfect performance of confidence if I didn't see straight through it.
“Hayden Herron,” she says smoothly, voice as polished as the glass of champagne she holds. “A rare sight in the flesh.”
“Oh?”
She arches an eyebrow, her smirk subtle but knowing. “You would think I'd see you more, considering I’m your Chosen.”
I take the drink from her hand, ignoring the flicker of irritation in her expression, and bring the champagne to my lips. “That would mean I'd have to care what you think.”
She tilts her head, watching me carefully, “Is that so?”
I don’t answer. I don’t find her baiting interesting, and her attempts to appeal to me are falling flat. It’s not her fault, really, but the women I usually want are only desirablebecause they’re generally terrified and running in the opposite direction.
Dale Danton is stunning, in a very average way. The kind of beauty that is undeniable but predictable, polished, practiced, and above all, expected. The symmetry of her face is nearly obscene, yet it doesn’t interest me. Striking yet without intrigue. There is nothing unusual about her. No flaw that makes her compelling. No imperfection to hold my attention.
I would fuck her in a state of boredom, but that’s as far as I’d ever run with it.
I don’t need her admiration, and I don’t need her approval. I surely don’t need her attention, but I’m grateful for her champagne as I down it in one gulp.
She steps closer, just enough to test the waters. I can smell her perfume, rich and sharp, the kind that clings to skin long after she’s gone. Underneath it is a sweetness that’s slightly nauseating.
“We should get to know each other, finally,” she murmurs, watching me through thick lashes.
I glance at her lips, then back to her eyes. “Why?”
Her smirk falters slightly. “It’ll make this easier.”
I let the silence stretch. Long enough to make her shift slightly under my gaze, to let her wonder if I’ll make this difficult.
Then, finally, I smirk back. “For who?”
She seems satisfied with that answer, stepping even closer, the warmth of her body just brushing against me. “I assume you have a favorite drink,” she muses, fingers trailing over the rim of a fresh glass on the table beside us. “Or am I supposed to figure that out?”
“I don’t need you to figure out anything.”
Her expression flickers, brief but noticeable. “You don’t want to make this easier?”
I exhale a short laugh, low and humorless. “I don’t care if it’s easy or not.”
Her posture stiffens slightly before she smooths it over with another poised smile, this time, more honest than the sickly sweet ones from before. “Good. Then we still understand each other.”
“Don’t mistake this for anything more than what it is,” I say flatly. “I'm truly not interested.”
Her lips part slightly, and for the first time, I see a fracture in her polished exterior; a crack, a hesitation. Then, just as quickly, she recovers.
All it does is make me wonder what she’s hiding.
“Of course,” she says smoothly, stepping back, eyes unreadable once more. “No need to pretend.”
I watch her walk away, her hips moving with deliberate grace, the way she was taught to move. Fordham’s gaze is fixed on her, his jaw tight, a tension simmering beneath the carefully cultivated mask of control. It’s clear he wants her, and badly, but she barely acknowledges his stare. Dale's cool indifference towards me falters into something warmer, softer, when her eyes briefly meet Ford’s.
Interesting.
Ford downs the rest of his drink, jaw flexing, and turns away sharply.
I almost laugh. Almost.
