“I thought that’s what you wanted. For me to play along with whatever scenario you create.” There’s an edge to her voice now, the first genuine emotion I’ve heard from her in days.
“I didn’t create this scenario,” I point out. “But we’re in it now.”
She uncrosses her arms, her posture softening slightly. “So what happens next, Nico? Do we practice being a happy couple? Should I start calling you ‘honey’ and ‘sweetheart’? Should we coordinate our outfits for Eleanor’s gala?”
The mockery is subtle but unmistakable. I climb the steps until I’m standing directly in front of her, close enough to feel the warmth of her body.
“What happens next,” I say quietly, “is that we both remember what this is. A lie. Necessary fiction. Nothing more.”
She meets my gaze without flinching. “Of course. After all, I’m just a pawn in your game with my mother, right? Not fiancée material at all.”
There’s something in her eyes. A spark of the old Lea, the one who challenged me at every turn. It’s both refreshing and concerning. If she’s allowing herself to show this defiance, what else is she planning?
“We’ll attend Eleanor’s gala,” I continue, ignoring her barb. “We’ll play the happy couple for exactly three hours. Then we’ll make our excuses and leave. End of story.”
She tilts her head slightly, studying me. “And you think it will be that simple? That we can just show up at a high-society event, announce our engagement, and disappear without consequences?”
“I’ll handle any complications,” I say firmly.
A small, knowing smile plays at the corners of her mouth. “You always do, don’t you, Nico? Handle things. Control the variables.Except this time, you didn’t. Eleanor Davenport just outplayed you in your own home.”
The observation stings because it’s accurate. I was outmaneuvered, and by a social gadfly no less. The realization settles uncomfortably in my chest.
“Perhaps,” I concede. “But the game isn’t over yet.”
She steps closer, her expression shifting to one of practiced adoration, so convincing that for a moment I forget it’s an act. She reaches up and straightens my collar, her fingers brushing against my neck in a gesture that’s as intimate as it’s calculating.
“No,” she agrees, her voice soft but her eyes hard. “It’s only just beginning, fiancé.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
LEA
The reflectionin the full-length mirror isn’t me. Not the real me, anyway.
This woman wears a blood-red gown that clings to her curves before cascading to the floor in a waterfall of silk. Her hair is swept into an elegant updo, with a few artfully loose tendrils framing her face. Diamond earrings catch the light when she turns her head. Her makeup is flawless, eyes smoky and alluring, lips painted the exact shade of her dress.
She looks confident. Powerful. Like she belongs in Nico Varela’s world.
“Are you planning to stare at yourself all afternoon, or are we attending this gala?” Nico appears in the doorway behind me, his reflection joining mine in the mirror.
He’s devastating in a black tuxedo, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and his lean, powerful frame. His hair is styled back from his face, accentuating the sharp angles of hischeekbones and jaw. The overall effect is predatory elegance, like a wolf in designer clothing.
“Just making sure I look the part,” I reply, turning to face him. “The devoted fiancée of Chicago’s most enigmatic businessman.”
His eyes travel over me slowly, deliberately, the weight of his gaze almost physical. “You’ll do,” he says finally, but the slight tightening of his jaw betrays him.
I smile, knowing I’ve affected him despite his controlled demeanor. It’s a small victory in our ongoing war, and I collect it like ammunition.
“The dress fits perfectly,” I remark casually. “How did you know my exact size?”
His smile is chilly. “I make it my business to know everything about you, piccola.”
Yesterday, the dress had arrived in an unmarked box. That I’m wearing it now instead of ripping it to shreds shows how my priorities have shifted. Survival and intelligence gathering come before pride.
“Shall we?” He extends his arm, the perfect gentleman. Another performance for an audience of two before we take our act public.
I reluctantly place my hand in the crook of his elbow, feeling the solid muscle beneath the fine fabric of his jacket. “Lead the way, fiancé.”
