Make your father proud. Smile, nod, obey.
Play the fucking game, Mara.
“Of course, Mrs. Davenport. That sounds like a very effective method to raise awareness for… turtles?” I say with my best political smile, even as my brain short-circuits. Was she talking about turtles? Or taxes? I’ve stopped listening. Her words became background noise five sentences ago.
She prattles on, her voice a droning lull, while I use her cadence as a metronome to keep myself from cracking. I nod at the right moments, offer polite affirmations, but I’ve completely dissociated.
A prickle crawls up the back of my neck. The kind of chill you get when a storm is about to hit. I glance past her shoulder, and my stomach flips.
Talon Reed.
Fuck.
He stands with a man who has the same cut jaw, the same eyes—his father. Both are dressed like OCK royalty: sharp charcoal suits, dark green ties. Talon is taller, broader, and carries himself with a lazy kind of danger that doesn’t belong in this polished room.
His eyes skim the crowd with disinterest until they land on me.
Our gazes lock and my breath catches.
A slow, knowing smirk spreads across his lips. My heart stumbles over itself.
I should look away.
But I don’t.
And then, he moves, breaking away from his father without a word. Moving through the crowd right toward me.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“If you’ll excuse me—” I cut off Mrs. Davenport mid-sentence and turn away before I could be intercepted. I move fast, weaving through the crowd, pretending I’m not panicking.
But I can hear him behind me.
Getting closer.
And there’s nowhere to run in this goddamn cage.
“Princess in pearls.” His voice wraps around me like velvet.
I turn slowly and there he is. God, why is he so beautiful? His eyes drag over me without shame, staring at my neatly-pinned hair, sliding down the fitted red dress my mother forced on me, then lingering on the pearls.
His gaze alone makes me feel naked.
“How many lies have you smiled through tonight?” he asks, his voice just low enough for me to hear.
My spine stiffens, but I keep my face composed. “Good evening, Mr. Reed. Always a pleasure.”
He cocks his head, annoyingly amused at the use of a formal greeting.
“Talon. You call me Talon.” A butler passes us with a tray of champagne flutes. He reaches for one and holds it out to me. “Here. You look like you could use a drink.”
I glance down at my empty hand, wishing I hadn’t left my glass of champagne by the table I was just at. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”
He steps in closer, his scent unfurling around me—smoke, cedar, and heat. “Come on,” he murmurs, holding the glass out until it nearly grazes my fingers. “I’m trying to be polite.”
He knows that I can’t say no; it would be rude to reject his offer of a beverage. And I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of blowing up on him.
“Daddy is watching, so take the champagne.”
