Mirepoix. The same base I've made a thousand times before. The foundation for stocks and sauces and soups, the building blocks of French cooking that my chef instructor drilled into me until I could prep them in my sleep.
My hands know what to do without conscious thought, which is good because my mind is somewhere else entirely. Somewhere I don't want it to be but can't seem to escape from no matter how hard I try to focus on the simple, mechanical task in front of me.
Last night.
The memory plays on loop, unavoidable and relentless. Luan's mouth on mine. The taste of him, whiskey and want and something darker I couldn't name. The way his hands gripped my hips hard enough to leave marks, possessive and claiming in a way that made my brain short-circuit completely.
I lost myself in that kiss. Lost track of where we were, the flashing lights and pounding music and crowd of witnesses below. Lost track of who was watching, Artan and Erion sitting right there at the table. Lost track of what any of it was supposed to mean, the performance we were putting on for the benefit of anyone looking up at the VIP section.
I got caught in a haze of lust and desire and forgot the most fundamental truth of this entire situation.
It's pretend. All of it.
I'm a means to an end. A paid employee performing a role, playing a part in a production that has nothing to do with genuine feeling or real connection. When this arrangement ends, when Luan no longer needs a fake fiancée to satisfy whatever requirement his family has imposed, I'll move on with my life and so will he.
Like none of this ever happened.
But for a moment last night, I believed the passion was real. Believed that kiss meant something beyond performance, beyond the lie we're maintaining for external consumption.
I wanted it to be real.
And that's the problem. That's the thing that kept me awake all night staring at the ceiling, replaying every second, analyzing every touch and sound and sensation until I couldn't think straight anymore.
Because if I'm brutally honest with myself, I have feelings for Luan. Maybe just desire and physical attraction, the body wanting what the body wants regardless of wisdom or common sense. But something is there. Something dangerous that threatens to break through the professional boundaries I'm supposed to be maintaining.
The worst part is I didn't even care that Artan and Erion were right there. Didn't care that we had an audience, that we were being watched not just by them but by everyone in that club who happened to glance up at the VIP section and see us tangled together.
If anything, knowing they were watching made it more intense. Made the arousal sharper, the need more desperate.
Which is insane. Completely insane.
This isn't the first time I've gotten carried away recently. Erion in the changing room at the boutique, his fingers inside me, his hand over my mouth, his voice in my ear calling me his dirty little girl. The way I let it happen without protest, without thought, without any consideration for where we were or who might walk in or what it meant.
And before that, Artan. When we almost kissed, when the air between us charged with possibility.
I must be losing my mind. Being attracted to three men at once, wanting all of them in different ways, letting myself get carried away by physical sensation without thinking about consequences or reality or basic self-preservation.
This is a recipe for disaster. The kind of situation that ends badly for everyone involved but especially for the person with the least power, which in this case is definitely me.
I need to keep my distance. Maintain professional boundaries. Revert to being just the hired help, just someone who performs her duties and stays out of the way and doesn't develop inconvenient feelings for her temporary employers.
Or things will not end well. Especially if my heart gets involved.
Which it already has. I know it has because of how I reacted last night when that woman appeared.
Her voice still echoes in my head. Shrill and vicious and dripping with possessive entitlement. Calling me a cheap whore, talking to Luan like she had a claim on him, like I was the interloper in something that belonged to her.
Gorgeous. Sophisticated. The kind of woman who knows how to navigate their world, who understands the rules and the stakes and the games being played. The kind of woman who matches Luan in ways I never could.
There's a story there. History between them that I don't know and probably shouldn't want to know.
And if she's his type, then I can never be his type. Simple and undeniable logic.
So after a long sleepless night of staring at shadows on the ceiling and replaying every moment and trying to untangle what's real from what's performance, I've made a decision.
Professional boundaries. Non-negotiable. I'll tell Luan he needs to find another fake fiancée, someone more appropriate for the role.
The engagement hasn’t been announced publicly yet. The only public outing was yesterday at Obsidian, and that can be explained away easily enough.
