The liquor flowed, and the guys hooted and hollered, throwing runics with wild abandon while propositioning her for lap dances. But the bachelor boy seemed… unimpressed. Bored, even.
He sipped his drink slowly, scrolling on his phone whenever he could.
The friend next to him smacked him on the arm. “Dude, check out that one.”
Fontaine looked up, and while he was distracted by what was objectively a pretty cool move on the pole by the dancer, the friend slipped something into his drink.
Pessil, probably. The drug of choice for creeps who wanted to “soften up” whoever they were talking to. It made you more pliable. Suggestible.
That was one way to help convince your friend to cheat on their fiancée. Wouldn’t say I was a fan of the method, but the drug couldn’t create feelings that didn’t exist.
And I strangely appreciated them moving this along. I had a raid at the Premier’s Mansion to plan, after all. At the rate Fontaine had been going, he would have been celebrating his fifth wedding anniversary before I got any pics.
Another thirty minutes went by, my phone burning a hole in my pocket as I waited to take it out, but Fontaine still wasn’t doing anything. His eyes were glassy, a sign the pessil was doing its job, but he refused every personal dance, brushed off the girls’ touches, and just asked the group if they could leave.
He was tired.
He didn’t feel well.
He wasn’t having fun.
I wasn’t having fun, either. Where was the “piece of shit” due for some righteous retribution? The “piece of shit” who deserved to have his whole life blown up over a few compromising pictures?
Because so far, all I saw was a beta that, on closer inspection, was just playing some stupid online games while his friends took turns motorboating a very well-endowed werewolf.
The next dancer entered, and he finally looked up, his jaw dropping. A seraph omega, her wings pristine and white as her curly hair. She batted her long eyelashes, and Fontaine gasped. “Aniel?” he asked, his voice slurred. “Is that you?”
She nodded, making a beeline for his lap.
“What are you doing here? And why—why are you wearing that? Guys!” he called, pulling the seraph into his chest. “Don’t look at her!”
Okay, this was getting weird. Especially since the seraph sitting on his lap wasn’t a seraph at all, but a merfolk wearing a glamour charm.
“I can’t wait til next weekend, baby” Fontaine purred, rubbing his nose along the column of her pale neck. “You’re gonna be my wife.”
I froze.
Fuck.
This wasn’t just a setup, this was a trick. Fontaine wasn’t a scumbag cheating on his fiancée. He thought thiswashis fiancée.
“Give her a kiss, Ram!” jeered the friend who’d slipped him the pessil, and the rest of the group snickered, watching as their “friend” ran his hands down the sides of the imposter, and she leaned down to draw him into a kiss.
He eagerly complied, sloppy and hungry and happy to be with the woman he loved.
This was… this was wrong.
His eyes closed as he blissed out, and the glamour disappeared, revealing to the rest of us who she really was, and what he was really doing.
Making out with a stripper.
Fuck, fuck!
I took out my phone and pretended to take a few photos as I thought about how I could get out of this one. It wasn’t a simple matter of just paying the blackmail myself. There needed to be proof for the friend who’d hired us, too.
The glamour reappeared, and the woman jumped up, kissing Fontaine on the nose before she skipped to the back room.
“Guys, did you see that? Aniel came!”
