“And here I was, thinking you liked it when I slapped you.” A barely audible groan escapes me, my tongue playing with my lip scar.
“Babygirl, if you get me hard on this dancefloor, you’ll regret it. Save the dirty talk for later.” Winking, I tilt my head to inhale the perfume on her neck, deliberately guiding her through the motions closer than what would be deemed respectful. My palm borders on her ass, my thighs often slipping between hers to direct her steps. It’s more of a dirty blues than a waltz, but I impress myself by keeping in count.
Harper huffs a silent laugh, the vibration of it traveling straight into my chest as I feel her relax into the rhythm. Lifting my arm to spin her for Clayton to appreciate and everyone else to envy, I exaggerate the third count just enough to dip her slightly. The slit in her dress flares, revealing a creamy thigh.
Instinctively, Harper’s grip tightens on my shoulder, her eyes widening for half a second before she catches on. Lifting a brow as if to reprimand me, that does nothing to hide how much she’s enjoying herself. I lean down, my mouth brushing the shell of her ear, careful not to disturb the mic at my throat.
“Trust me,” I murmur, more for reassurance than a command. She does instantly. Harper’s body follows mine like it always has, attentive and responsive, her feet finding the pattern even when I change it up.
Spinning her out and reeling her back in, her hand slides along the veins of my forearm much like it does to the piercings of my cock. I try to shake the image from my head, reminding myself that I’m supposed to be focusing, but it’s useless. When Harper’s touching me, when she’s staring at me like I’m her whole, there’s no way I can concentrate.
The chandelier light catches in her hair as she turns, the image of her curls shifting through my inked fingers all too real. The room around us blurs, the faces, money and power fading out. The next time Harper spins into me, I instinctively reach for her throat, my palm trailing the space between her collarbone and her breast. She catches my wrist at the last moment, shakes her head with a spark of mischief lighting her eyes.
“You’re showing off,” she accuses, the words lost to the music but unmistakable on her lips. I shrug unapologetically, guiding her through another turn that brings her flush against me again.
“If you could see what I’m seeing, you’d want to show off too. You’re exquisite.” My hand returns to her lower back, tracing a small circle against her spine with my thumb. Around us, the murmurs swell, curiosity sharpening as the cameras continue to flash, but Harper doesn’t shy away anymore. She lifts her chin, matching my smirk with one of her own.
“Let’s have a drink before the real party begins,” Harper quietly demands. I read the intent behind her stare. We’re here to do a job. Nodding, I follow her to the table where Clayton waits, ignoring the smartphones all angled in our direction. Most of the students who were waiting outside have been permitted entry now, and the hall is filled with bodies.
At the edge of my vision, Arthur moves through the crowd, shaking hands with those he chooses and ignoring everyone else. I settle into a chair, a flute between my fingers as a flash of pink passes the other side of the dancefloor. Addy heads directly towards Arthur, and my grip around the glass tightens. At thelast moment, she realises her mistake and darts left, hiding her face behind a paper fan. I huff out a breath, thankfully Addy doesn’t have her own plan this evening.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” a quiet voice asks, the question not directed at me. Harper has taken the chair behind me, putting her beside Klara, who is already on her third champagne. She doesn’t look at me, her eyes downcast towards the glittering blue dress wrapped around her body like a second skin. Harper smiles delicately and nods.
“We did, thank you for your help.”
“Kinda seems like the least I could do. Mother tells me if I’ve ‘blown my chances with the Waversea boy’,” Klara air quotes, “that I’d best start looking for a replacement. They’ve invited the most dreadfully boring investors and their grandsons to this event. Yippee for me,” Klara rolls her eyes and lifts her flute in a mockery. I don’t think she intended for Harper to lift her own glass and clink it, the pair of them downing its contents.
“We’ll find you someone better than Rhys,” Harper states.
“Hey,” I scowl over my shoulder. “I can hear you.” Nudging my shoulder, Harper giggles.
“I mean, better forher. Everyone has a person. It just takes some searching sometimes.” Turning away before she can see my smirk, I settle into the chair as her hand remains on my shoulder and kneads gently.
Across the room, Arthur has made his way towards the stage. The orchestra softens until it finds silence, his rigid posture stepping onto the plinth with a whiskey glass in one hand and flash cards in the other.
Gaining everyone’s attention without needing to ask for it, his shrewd eyes scan the crowd and land directly on me. The contact is brief, just enough to let me know he’s noticed me, then sweeps away as if he has discarded me like the trash he thinks I am. Up until a few months ago, I may have been inclined toagree, but not now there’s a small hand gripping my shoulder in solidarity.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Arthur begins, his voice carrying effortlessly through the hall. “Thank you for joining us this evening in support of Waversea Academy’s continued expansion and philanthropic initiatives.” He lifts his glass a fraction, not quite a toast, more an acknowledgement of obligation. “Your generosity, as always, does not go unnoticed.” Polite laughter ripples through the room.
His tone is clipped and perfectly articulated, the sound of a man who has never doubted he would be listened to. A man who would never have been content stuck in his brother’s shadow. It slams into me that this is the first time I’m confronted with the man who raised me, in a sense, since learning the truth. I lean forward, elbows on the table and chin in my hands.
Hunting for differences between him and the man I now know to be the real Phillip Waversea, I don’t find as many as I like. Aside from the fact that age favors the rich, ensuring that his hair plugs are dark and his face is protected by Botox fillers, Arthur’s outward appearance is eerily similar.
The guilt I’ve grappled with since staying at my parents’ rundown house the other night returns. I know I was a child, but surely I should have noticed that something was terribly wrong. I should have sensed that this man, the one who beat me into submission and then called me weak for it, couldn’t possibly have been my father.
The rest of his speech is the usual garbage, listing the honorary students invited for their achievements. Prime examples of the excellence Waversea expects, he says, glaring at me while the words fill the space between us. My brows jump in challenge, my glass raising and tipping in his direction. Arthur barely manages to hide his sneer as he looks away.
I drink, twisting back to sneak out Harper’s thigh beneath the table. Squeezing firm, her hand grips mine and holds on with the same vigor while his voice fills my ears. This whole event is a farce, a way to keep himself in good standing with the press. Arthur’s reputation is of the utmost importance, and now I know why. He’s carrying a legacy that wasn’t his to bear, and he intends to keep it. Over my dead body. Arthur may think he’s holding the best hand that he’s won before the final draw, but I’ve always been a wildcard. I intend to stay that way.
“I’ll allow you all to enjoy the music and champagne," he says at long last. The tension in my shoulders loosens slightly. Arthur pockets his flashcards and passes his glass to a waiter. “Unfortunately, I must apologize for the brevity of my appearance tonight. A matter of business requires my immediate attention nearby. I regret missing the remainder of what promises to be a memorable evening, but I trust you are all in capable hands.”
Harper’s hand tightens to the point of breaking my fingers, her wide eyes meeting mine before Clayton looks up from where he was twiddling his thumbs.Nearby. The word lodges itself in my chest, dread spiraling in my gut. There’s nothing for Arthur near the academy unless…he knows. Catching his eye, he inclines his head, a king dismissing his court as he steps down from the plinth.
My heart stutters, a sickening lurch as every careful step of my plan suddenly compresses into a single, terrifying point. He’s leaving. This isn’t how it’s meant to go. I’m supposed to corner him, needle him, let old wounds fester until he can’t help but open his mouth and spill everything. Every lie, every account, every hand he’s ever raised in private, he owes me those truths. It’s the least I deserve, and they’re supposed to be delivered directly into the wire, pressed flat against my skin and hidden beneath Harper’s mic.
I’m on my feet before I consciously decide to be, the chair legs scraping faintly against the wood floor. Clayton moves at the same time, instinctively flanking me. Standing shoulder to shoulder, I reach back for Harper’s hand, but my fingers skim the air.
Looking back, I glare at Klara, who shrinks in her seat and points off to the side. My head snaps in the direction, frantically searching for Harper, and when I spot her, I let out an animalistic snarl.
