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They’re not.
Every smile is curated. Every laugh is a performance. There’s so much Botox and backhanded compliments floating around, I’m surprised the walls haven’t staged a rebellion.
Tonight, the stakes are higher than ever. Government officials litter the corners of the room like polished surveillance equipment: apex executives, two senators, and somewhere near the champagne fountain -
An OMB board member, holding a flute and pretending he doesn’t want to sterilize the guest list.
I keep to the edge, camera in hand, lens doing all the socializing for me.
Click.
Smile caught mid-fake.
Click.
Overcompensating cufflinks and generational wealth trauma.
Click. Flash. Pivot.
I’m the ghost in the room, and it’s perfect.
Nobody sees the photographer, and nobody questions the beta in the black dress blending into the wallpaper.
Exactly how I like it.
Exactly how it has to be.
Until the air shifts.
Not with sound - withpressure.
My skin prickles. My spine goes straight. Something ancient and hormonal rolls up my back like instinct's cold hand, and I turn -
Too late.
He doesn’t enter. Hearrives.
Tall, broad, and cut from shadow and repressed violence; the kind of man who doesn’t need to raise his voice because you’ll already be apologizing for the thing you haven’t done yet.
His face is all hard edges and old tension. There’s a scar beneath his left cheekbone that saysI’ve seen worse than you- and the way he carries himself says hecausedmost of it. There’s nothing soft about him: not the buzzed fair hair, or the hands tucked loosely in his pockets, or the quiet awareness in every step.
No tux. No flair. Just a charcoal suit so sharp it might file your taxes and stab you in the same evening.
No tie. Top button undone, as though he's giving just the slightest concession to breathable air.
He’s got a soldier’s posture. Not the parade kind - the dangerous kind.
Like he’s calculating exits and vulnerabilities even while pretending to glance at the bar.
A beta standing near the champagne does a double-take that borders on felony. Her friend follows her gaze, murmurs something, and suddenly they’re both giggling like a pair of hormone-drunk academy girls.
I look too.
I shouldn’t.
But I do.
Just long enough for my heart to give a soft, traitorous thud.
