I clear my throat, my discomfort growing more palpable with each passing second. I’m not sure what to say. Or how to react. Quinton's fingers graze my lower back, a subtle touch that confuses me further.
"Shall we find something to drink?" he asks.
Vivienne nods. "I could use a glass of champagne."
As Quinton leads the way to the bar, Vivienne's fingers trail along his arm in a way that's meant to be playful but feels far too intimate for my liking. The surge of jealousy I'd felt earlierintensifies, but I quickly suppress it, reminding myself that Quinton doesn’t owe me anything. Nor do I want it. I don’t.
Quinton orders two champagnes and one sparkling cider. Before we can toast, Charles’s voice booms through the speakers and all heads turn to the front of the room.
“Welcome my friends,” he begins. “I am so very pleased to see all your wonderful and generous faces tonight.” He pauses, tone solemn. “It’s been five years since my dear Rose left this earth, and I miss her terribly every single day. She was a woman of grace, elegance, and boundless compassion. Her spirit lives on in the Rose Foundation which works tirelessly to support those who are fighting the same battle she fought. Together, we can make a difference in the lives of those affected by cancer.”
Quinton's hand finds my waist, and he holds it, almost as if he’s afraid he’ll crumble. He must miss his mother.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Quin,” I whisper to him.
His grip around me tightens, his focus locked on his father. But I see it. The way his eyes gloss over.
“Thank you, darling.”
I turn my attention back to Charles as he urges the guests to open their wallets and donate to the Rose Foundation. A small applause ripples through the crowd, and Charles smiles, gratitude etched across his aging features. And then his expression shifts, becoming more animated, more joyful.
Quin relaxes. I feel it.
“Now, my friends,” Charles continues with a smile, “as many of you know, my Rose's name was no coincidence. Her father was a fervent admirer of Shakespeare, and he named her after The Rose playhouse. It seems only fitting that we honor Rose's love for the arts tonight.” He gestures outside toward the entrance of the amphitheater. “In collaboration with the London Playhouse, we have a special treat for you: Shakespeare's timeless play—Antony and Cleopatra. We've arranged forheaters and blankets, but it might be a tad chilly out there, so feel free to bring your jackets with you."
The crowd claps, and I exchange a glance with Quinton. He gives me a playful, almost instigating smirk, and I wonder how many times a day he changes his mask.
“I adore Shakespeare,” Vivienne whispers, and I stifle an eye roll. “How lovely.”
Charles finishes his speech, and the crowd begins to disperse. Quinton motions toward the amphitheater, Vivienne lingering beside us.
“Shall we?” he asks.
I nod, following Quinton through the double French doors.
A wall of icy wind whips past us as we step outside and Vivienne shivers, holding her petite figure. “Thank goodness there are heaters. It is like Father Frost has joined us tonight.” The three of us take our seats with Quinton in the middle. Vivienne passes us a blanket each. “Here.” She gives me a smug smile. “If we get too cold, perhaps we can layer them and use our body heat to stay warm.” She glances at Quinton. “Mmm?”
Quinton chuckles. “Always a survivalist, aren’t you, Vivienne?”
I force my expression to remain neutral, despite the fact that I want to slap the smile off her pretty little face.
As the stage lights flicker, indicating that act one is about to begin, I slide my right hand under the blanket. Quinton’s blanket. Don’t worry,Viv. He won’t get cold. If anything, he’ll be hot. Too hot. Almostsweating.
When my fingers find Quin’s zipper, his eyes widen, and he gives me a subtle glance and opens his mouth.
“Shh,” I hush him, focusing intently on the stage as I unzip his pants, pleasantly surprised there’s nothing but flesh underneath. “No talking. It’s about to begin.”
A ghost of a smirk clips Quinton’s face as he leans back into his seat. “God, I love the theater.”
I release a clipped laugh, my grip around his cock tightening to a violent degree.
“You shouldn’t,” I whisper. “This is atragedy, Quinton.” My antagonistic gaze meets his. “There isn’t a happy ending. Just a slow,” I roll his dick between my palm in a slow, calculated rhythm, “demise.”
THE EIGHT BALL
QUINTON
She’s a vile,wicked woman. Pure evil. Completely diabolical. I clench my teeth, controlling my desperate breathing as I attempt to disassociate from her wily strokes. But I can’t. It’s all I can feel. Her touch. Her torment. Her goddamn games. My cock throbs between her slender fingers, begging, fucking pleading for a release that never comes.
