Glass walls soared three stories high, every surface catching and scattering light from crystal chandeliers strung between the steel beams. Inside, thousands of roses bloomed in defiance of the cold — red, white, coral, pink so pale it was almost white. Orchids hung from iron trellises overhead, their petals ghostly in the warm mist that drifted through the pathways. The air was humid and thick, fragrant, a full-body embrace the second you walked through the doors.
Valentine's week had transformed the space into an extravagance that bordered on obscene. Candles floated in stone basins between the rose beds. String quartets played from alcoves hidden behind cascading ferns. Cupid City's elite drifted through the mist in gowns and tuxedos, champagne catching the light like liquid crystal.
Dominic and I walked in together. His hand settled at the small of my back — warm through the silk, his fingers spread wide enough that I felt each one. My arm looped through his.To anyone watching, we were just another couple attending the Winter Rose Gala.
I was very aware that we were not a couple.
I was also very aware of the warmth through the silk.
"Senator Tully is near the orchid display," I murmured, scanning the room over the rim of a champagne flute I'd snagged from a passing server. "Wife's in blue, standing with the head of the children's hospital board. Mistress is the blonde in the gold dress, pretending to admire the dendrobiums about fifteen feet to his left."
"I see them."
"I need shots of him with both. Separately first, then together if I can engineer it."
"Engineer it?"
"Tully's a handshaker. He'll work the room toward gold dress eventually — he can't help himself. I just need to be in the right spot when he does."
"And where's the right spot?"
I smiled up at him — playing the adoring date while my eyes mapped every sightline in the conservatory. "Behind the largest rose display in the west gallery. The lighting's low, the arrangement is big enough to crouch behind, and there's a service corridor six steps to the right if we need to disappear."
"You've done this before."
"I've done everything before." I squeezed his arm. "Come on. Let's make the rounds first. Alexandra Winters doesn't skulk. She mingles."
We worked the room. I played my part — charming, forgettable, asking just enough questions to seem interested without being memorable. Dominic stayed close, one hand always somewhere on me — my back, my arm, the curve of my waist when we turned. Attentive date to anyone watching. Bodyguard counting exits to me.
The problem was that my body didn't know the difference.
Every time his fingers shifted on my waist, heat bloomed under the silk. Every time he leaned down to murmur in my ear — an observation about a guest, a sight line, a dry comment that almost made me laugh out loud — his breath hit my neck and I lost my train of thought.
Two days. Two days of this man in my space, catching me in dark closets, his body pressed against mine while I pretended it was strategy. Two nights of lying in bed knowing he was fifteen feet away, listening to him breathe, wondering what would happen if I stopped pretending I didn't want —
Focus. I had a job.
I spotted Deb Hoyle before she spotted me.
She was near the champagne fountain, swaying on heels that didn't fit right. Mascara already smudged. Her dress — designer, probably from a time when she could still afford designers — was wrinkled, like she'd been sitting in it for hours before coming. Hair unwashed, pulled into a bun that was falling apart.
Six months ago, Deb Hoyle had hosted the most exclusive poker nights in Cupid City. Money, power, secrets traded across green felt in her penthouse. I'd gotten in with a fake invite, documented the whole operation, and Cupid Confidential had broken the story.
She'd lost everything. Husband filed for divorce. Friends scattered. Accounts frozen. Now she was at a charity gala, drinking free champagne because she couldn't afford to buy her own.
I did that.
The guilt hit hard — harder than it should have, because I'd told myself a hundred times that I reported facts. That she'd run an illegal gambling ring and I'd done my job. That she'd made her choices.
But watching her sway at the champagne fountain, mascara running, nobody talking to her — it didn't feel like justice. It felt like wreckage.
She saw me.
Her eyes went wide. Then furious. She shoved through the crowd, stumbling, champagne sloshing over her wrist.
"You." Her voice carried. Conversations stopped. Heads turned. "You RUINED me!"
Dominic shifted instantly, putting himself half a step ahead, angling his body between us. But Deb wasn't dangerous. She was devastated.
