“For optics.” I lift my glass but do not drink.
Across the room, Riot sits angled in his chair, tuxedo sharp, posture deceptively loose. One arm rests along the back of his seat, but his gaze is fixed and aware. He has positioned himself with a clear line of sight to me, to Konstantin, and to every exit. For a brief second, our eyes meet. I wish I was sitting beside him, his arm stretched across the back of my chair, our thighs touching. I can imagine him leaning in to tell me something just between us. Instead I’m next to my “fiancé” who probably had me kidnapped and beaten to teach me a lesson.
We sit, and the performance begins. Dinner is served in quiet, synchronized precision. White-gloved servers move in smooth lines, placing plates as if choreography matters as much as cuisine. The first course is something delicate and artfullyarranged, a sculpture disguised as food. No one is actually here for the food.
We make conversation. Mr. Orlovsky discusses expansion into European markets with Papa as if they are debating weather patterns instead of territory. Mrs. Orlovsky comments on the charity’s impact with polished sincerity. Konstantin speaks about infrastructure investments and philanthropic visibility, his tone measured, confident, curated for anyone close enough to overhear.
I respond when appropriate. I smile when cameras angle near our table. I lift my glass when toasts are made.
The orchestra plays softly near the stage, strings and piano threading through the hum of voices. A master of ceremonies takes the podium between courses, thanking benefactors, announcing fundraising milestones, spotlighting initiatives that polish reputations as effectively as they raise money. Paddles lift around the room as the numbers climb higher, and applause rises in controlled, measured waves.
A second course arrives. Wine is refreshed. Laughter grows louder at some tables as the alcohol settles in. Across the room, the Reapers remain visible but not intrusive. Mason speaks quietly with his wife, nodding as if discussing charity projections instead of security patterns. Blade’s gaze sweeps the room in intervals so subtle most would miss it. Rev clinks glasses with a suited businessman, smiling broadly, yet his shoulders never fully relax. Riot sits angled just enough that I feel him before I look at him.
A video presentation begins, lights dimming slightly as images flash across massive screens: smiling children, renovated buildings, clean water projects, carefully selected narratives ofbenevolence. The room watches with respectful attention. In the dark, his palm settles deliberately on my thigh beneath the edge of the tablecloth. Not near my knee. Not accidental, but possessive and claiming. From the outside, nothing changes. His posture remains elegant. His expression composed. Anyone watching would see only a man preparing to escort his fiancée to the dance floor.
My pulse spikes, not with embarrassment, but with something colder. I simply shift my leg, smooth and controlled, adjusting the fall of my dress as though repositioning the fabric. His hand slides off naturally, forced by movement he cannot challenge without exposing what he was doing.
When the lights rise again, the host announces the dance portion of the evening. The orchestra transitions seamlessly into something slower, more fluid. Couples begin to rise from their tables, gowns gliding across polished floors, tuxedos cutting clean lines beneath chandeliers.
He leans closer, voice low enough that only I hear. “You will not humiliate me,” he says evenly.
From across the ballroom, I can feel Riot’s attention sharpen.
And when I finally look at Konstantin, my expression is calm.
“May I have this dance?” Konstantin asks, already rising, already certain of the answer.
Refusing him here would be a declaration before I am ready to make it. So I stand. His hand settles at my lower back as he guides me toward the dance floor, the contact firm enough to steer, light enough to look courteous. Cameras flash as we step into the open space beneath the chandeliers, other couples already moving in slow, polished circles.
I feel eyes on us, investors, rivals, family, and one set in particular. As Konstantin turns me into position, his hand sliding to my waist, I look past his shoulder and find Riot staring. Not casually. Not politely. Hard. His posture has shifted, shoulders squared and jaw set, the loose ease gone from him entirely. He does not interrupt. He does not move. He just watches.Konstantin draws me closer than necessary, one hand clasping mine, the other firm at my back. The orchestra swells around us, strings smooth and elegant, the room spinning in measured rhythm.
I let my face soften into something graceful. Controlled. A version of affection that photographs well. From the outside, we look perfect. From the inside, I feel every place his hand touches like it leaves a mark. The pressure at my waist. The brush of his fingers against my spine. The way he pulls me a fraction too close when we turn. “You are making this harder than it needs to be,” he murmurs near my ear.
We glide past another couple, applause breaking out at the edge of the floor as more guests join. I allow my fingers to rest lightly in his, chin lifted, expression serene. Inside, I am counting the beats until the song ends.
When we turn again, I meet Riot’s gaze across the room. He is still watching. And if Konstantin feels the difference between a woman who belongs to him and a woman who refuses to bend, he does not show it. But I do. In the small, deliberate space I keep between us, even as we dance. We turn slowly beneath the chandeliers, cameras still flashing at the edge of the floor, donors smiling as if they are watching something romantic instead of strategic.
Konstantin’s hand rests at my waist, firm, guiding. My fingers remain light in his, careful not to grip more than necessary.“So,” he murmurs, voice smooth enough to pass for affectionate, “what shall it be?” I hold his gaze, expression composed. “A spring wedding,” he continues, rotating us through another measured step, “or summer?”
The question is delivered softly, but there is steel beneath it. He isn’t asking, he is testing whether I will play along.
I let a small smile touch my lips for anyone watching. The kind meant for cameras. “Is that how this works?” I ask lightly. “You choose the season and I provide the dress?”
His jaw flexes almost imperceptibly. “We will announce it tonight,” he says. “A date. A direction. It reassures people.”
“People,” I echo.
“Our investors,” he clarifies. “Our allies.”
“You mean your pride.”
His hand tightens slightly at my waist as we turn again. “You are enjoying this,” he says quietly.
“I am enduring it,” I reply.
He leans closer, breath brushing my temple. “You will not embarrass me in front of them.”
“And you will not dictate my life in front of them.”
