Rob B. Illion

The heavy bass of the music thrummed through the room as I sat on the low couch. With deliberate care, I made sure to keep my posture relaxed as I sipped from my glass of water.

From here, I had a perfect view of the stage. My eyes were locked on Miss Corday as she moved, her body cutting through the air like a blade, each motion precise yet wild.

She wasn't just performing.

She was demanding to be seen.

The silver fringe of her outfit shimmered in the dim golden light, catching flashes of brilliance that matched the storm in her movements.

Around me, the men leaned forward, hunger etched into their features. They saw the allure, the glittering surface. But they missed the defiance in her steps, the fragility woven into each sharp turn and lingering pause.

I didn't miss it.

For the first time since I met Miss Corday, I could truly see her. Beyond the fire, beyond the facade. Her story played out in every movement.

And it was as raw as it was mesmerizing.

This performance was my idea. A calculated move.

The goal was straightforward: put her in the spotlight and ensure she caught the eye of a high roller. From there, she would earn the bottle of champagne and gain access to Lady Q's office where she could steal the card.

My involvement was to end here.

At least...

That had been the plan.

Miss Corday spun, her silver fringe creating a shimmering halo, and then dropped to her knees, her back arching as though in surrender. The room collectively applauded as the song came to its end. A few men leaned closer, their eyes sharp, their interest unmistakable.

They weren't admiring her dance. They were assessing her.

My jaw tightened behind the mask.

This was what I orchestrated. This was what I wanted.

And yet, the thought of her leaving with one of them didn't sit right with me.

I set down my glass, the sound sharper than I intended. Around me, the men exchanged glances, their attention still fixed on her. My gloved fingers curled into fists, the thin, transparent material sitting uncomfortably on my skin. The rings were just as uncomfortable, but a necessary part of my disguise.

My eyes narrowed as I watched Miss Corday catch her breath.

She was here because of me.

So, was it not up to me to take responsibility?

I raised a hand, signaling Lady Q.

"Ah, Mister Death," she said as she walked over. Her gaze drifted toward the stage where Miss Corday stood, breathless but composed. "I trust the performance was to your liking?"

"It was... captivating," I replied.

She tilted her head, her smirk deepening.

"She has quite the talent, doesn't she? I've already had inquiries about her."

My gaze lingered on Miss Corday. She was retrieving her discarded skirt, her motions mechanical, her mind likely far away.

The thought of her being left at the mercy of a stranger irritated me.

"I would like to make another purchase," I said.

Lady Q's smile didn't falter, but I caught the brief flicker of surprise in her green eyes.

"Another performance?"

"No," I answered. "A Velvet Room."

Her brow arched slightly, curiosity slipping through her professional mask.

"You do understand the expense, Mister Death? And that others have already expressed interest?"

"Consider any potential offers outbid," I said simply. "My assistant will deliver the payment in cash once again."

Lady Q inclined her head, her blonde hair brushing over her shoulder.

"As you wish. The Velvet Room and Liza will be prepared."

She walked away, leaving me alone with the enormity of my decision. This wasn't part of the plan. I had intended to create distance, to let someone else take the risk of proximity.

But now, I was the one claiming her.

I exhaled sharply, adjusting the collar of my loose shirt.

It was a rash move, but it didn't have to mean anything. We could simply occupy the room, feign intimacy, and emerge with appearances intact.

Nothing more.

After a few minutes, a server came to escort me to the Velvet Room. I rose from the couch and followed after the woman. As I moved, the image of Miss Corday lingered in my mind — the vulnerability in her movements, the quiet ferocity in her eyes.

I couldn't stop thinking about it.

By the time I reached the polished door, my thoughts were a tangle I couldn't untie. My hand hesitated over the handle for a brief second before I dismissed my reservations.

I stepped into the room, the door clicking shut behind me. The air inside was heavy with unspoken tension. My eyes swept the space out of habit. The dim lighting, the muted gold and purple hues of the furniture, the faint scent of lavender...

And then there was her.

Miss Corday sat nervously by the edge of the velvet bed. She looked frightened, her hand fidgeting with the hem of her white dress.

"Nice... uh, nice room, right?" she spoke up nervously. "The view of the river is... something else."

I didn't reply.

I approached the small table by the couch, carefully removing each of my rings. The weight of her stare pressed into me as I placed the rings down one by one, the faint clink of metal breaking the quiet.

Her breath hitched when I adjusted the thin, transparent gloves on my hands, their faint shimmer catching the soft golden light. Her lips parted, as though she meant to say something, but silence swallowed her words.

Slowly, I reached into my pocket and retrieved a pair of black leather gloves. Miss Corday seemed to hold her breath as I slid them on, the supple material creaking faintly as it molded to my fingers.

When I removed my mask and set it aside, her wide eyes locked onto mine.

Her breathing came shallow, uneven, as if she were bracing for something she couldn't yet name.

"Shall we get drinks?" I asked, my voice calm, as though this was nothing more than a casual negotiation.

She broke eye contact as she gathered herself.

"Yes... Drinks."

I moved to the minibar, its polished surface gleaming under the dim light. Pouring a glass of water, I sensed her approaching hurriedly. She bypassed the lighter options, reaching for whiskey instead. Her unsteady hand poured the amber liquid into a glass, and she took a long sip, as if trying to steady herself.

I mirrored the gesture, sipping my water. The cold slid down my throat but did little to ease the heat slowly growing in my chest.

Neither of us spoke for a moment, the silence thick with what we couldn't risk saying.

Our conversation might not be private after all.

"So..." she began, her voice forced. "Are you enjoying the... night?"

Her attempt at normalcy was transparent, but I played along. A small, measured smile touched my lips — more for her benefit than mine.

"The night is still young."

Her laugh was brief and hollow, her fingers tightening around the glass.

"I guess you're right..."

This was how it would have to be. Vague. Suggestive. For now, we were strangers playing a game with invisible rules.

"You don't seem like much of a drinker," she observed, nodding toward my water. "Earlier, I thought you were drinking straight vodka."

Why do you never drink alcohol? She seemed to ask.

"Alcohol clouds judgment," I replied evenly. "And I dislike the taste."

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she took another sip of whiskey, her fingers tapping an anxious rhythm against the glass.

"Why did you buy me?" she asked softly.

The question was deceptively simple, innocent enough to slip past listening ears, but heavy with unspoken implications.

Why are you risking yourself in this mission? She meant to ask.

"It felt wrong to leave you with another," I admitted, my tone carefully neutral.

She licked her lips, her gaze darting toward mine before she leaned in slightly, her voice a whisper.

"You know the room is bugged, right? They hear everything."

Her green eyes met mine earnestly as she pulled back.

"I know," I replied, matching her quiet tone.

Her brows furrowed.

"We'll have to make this convincing..."

"I know," I said again.

I gestured for her to follow, and we moved to sit by the couch near the window. The city stretched out before us, glittering with artificial light. The inky sky hung above it all, a vast emptiness devoid of stars.

She swirled her drink, her gaze fixed on the amber liquid as if it held the answers she sought. The chandelier's light danced across her features, casting shadows that softened her edges.

I broke the silence first.

"You were... impressive on stage."

Her brow arched slightly.

"Impressive?"

"Yes," I replied, leaning back. "Your movements were precise. Intentional. Not the sort of thing one learns without practice."

A soft laugh escaped her, self-conscious rather than amused.

"Intentional, huh? That's a formal way of putting it."

"You trained," I said, not asking but stating. "If you'd continued perhaps you wouldn't have had to resort to..." My voice trailed off deliberately.

"Thievery," she whispered in a dry tone. She took another sip, her expression hardening. "Wouldn't that be great."

I watched her and she held my gaze before looking away with a sigh, running a hand through her wig.

"I used to dance. Back in high school. Ballet, hip-hop, contemporary... Anything, really. I was in the dance club and loved every second of it." She paused, her voice softening. "That was a long time ago."

"What made you stop?"

She hesitated, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass.

"Life happened. I never knew my father and my mom left when I was sixteen, and everything kind of... fell apart after that." She glanced up, her green eyes guarded. "I had to drop out, start working. But minimum wage wasn't exactly paying the rent or the debt I got left with. I felt like I had no choice."

She narrowed her eyes at me.

"You probably think I'm an idiot. I don't even have a high school diploma."

"I don't," I said simply.

Surprise flickered across her face, and her grip on the glass loosened.

"You don't?"

"No. Formal education is not the only measure of intelligence," I said. "Your resourcefulness is evidence enough. And... It is regrettable you had to go through that at such a young age. It must have been... difficult."

She shrugged dismissively.

"It was what it was. You don't get to choose the hand you're dealt. You just play it the best you can."

Her gaze flicked to mine, her lips curving into a faint smirk.

"Let me guess. You grew up with the best schools, the best teachers. Everything handed to you on a silver platter."

I straightened slightly, the shift in attention catching me off guard.

"That's about right," I admitted. "My family has old money. I had the best of everything growing up. But my parents... they aren't great with finances. When our fortune started to dwindle, I took it upon myself to ensure there was enough wealth for the next ten generations."

She scoffed softly.

"How do billionaires run out of money?"

"My parents were millionaires," I corrected. "And though we had a lot of wealth, they were more interested in attending charity events than attending investment seminars. I commend their commitment to giving to those in need, but I don't think they understood we could run out some day."

A faint smile ghosted across her lips.

"They sound amazing."

"They are," I said with the corner of my mouth tugging up. "I'm nothing like them. I do my duty but I don't particularly care about saving the world."

"No kidding," she teased.

The mood felt light and comfortable, so I talked some more.

"One of their prized possessions is an orange farm in Europe. My sister runs it now."

Her eyes widened slightly, her curiosity breaking through her guarded demeanor.

"An orange farm?"

"Yes."

She chuckled, the sound warm and pleasant.

"So, that explains it, then."

I knew she meant the orange tree in my penthouse.

"It reminds me of home," I admitted.

Her gaze softened, and she swirled her glass absently, her thoughts seeming to drift.

"That's... kind of nice," she said quietly. "Makes you seem more human. You're so stiff otherwise."

"Stiff?" I repeated, unsure whether she meant it as an insult or an observation.

She smirked, her green eyes glittering with amusement.

"You're like a robot. Everything has to stay in order."

I inclined my head slightly.

"Order provides clarity in chaos."

She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "That's a very formal way of saying you like control."

"I prefer efficiency," I countered. "Control is simply a tool to achieve it."

Her laughter came again, softer this time. I found myself leaning into our conversation.

"Maybe you should loosen up some more, Mr. Death. Or should I call you... Mr. Orange?"

The faintest chuckle escaped me.

"And maybe you should pursue your talent," I replied, tilting my head slightly. "Why let your skill go unused?"

Her smirk faded.

"It's not like I could've done much with it. I don't know anyone in the biz. And I can't go study it at some school. People don't expect much from someone who didn't even finish high school."

I met her gaze steadily.

"I expect much from you."

Her brow furrowed, a flicker of disbelief crossing her face.

Her lips parted slightly, but no words came. There was a question she wanted to ask but couldn't. Not with our conversation getting leaked.

Instead, she watched me with an unreadable expression, her walls momentarily lowered.

"You mean that?" she asked softly.

"Yes," I replied.

"Outside of... What is expected of me in our... situation?"

"Yes."

For the first time, the silence between us didn't feel like a weapon. It felt like understanding.

She smiled. A genuine smile that didn't feel like the pretense she had been putting up ever since staying with me.

But as soon as it appeared, it faded. She fiddled with the hem of her silk dress.

"We can't stall forever..." she murmured in resignation.

My gaze drifted to the bed.

"I suppose we can't..."

Miss Corday followed my line of sight, her eyes softening as she stood up, smoothing out her dress. Without hesitation, she extended her hand.

"This should be fine, right?" she asked, her voice soft but steady.

I hesitated, my gaze falling to her outstretched hand. It seemed so small. With some effort, I lifted my gloved hand and let my fingers lace with hers.

Her grip was warm as she led me to the edge of the bed.

She paused, the moment hanging in the air like a held breath. Then, with a short inhale, she released my hand and slid her dress from her shoulders.

The white silk slipped from her body, pooling at her feet gracefully. My eyes betrayed me, drawn to the silver lace that clung to her skin. It shimmered faintly, catching the dim glow of the room, and I felt my chest tighten with something unnamable.

Without a word, she climbed onto the mattress, settling back against the pillows with round, anxious eyes.

My feet refused to move at first. The air between us felt heavy, making it harder to breathe comfortably. But after a beat too long, I followed. The mattress dipped beneath my weight as I sat beside her, my every movement careful and controlled.

For a long moment, silence stretched between us. Then, her fingers moved, tracing the surface of my glove with a delicate curiosity.

"Do you wear these to separate yourself from the world?" she asked softly.

I flexed my fingers in the leather, the faint pull of the material comforting me.

"I don't like touching things," I admitted.

Her brows furrowed slightly, her curiosity genuine.

"What, like germophobia?"

I let my gaze drop to the faint pattern woven into the bedspread.

"Something like that," I said, evasive.

I didn't owe anyone an explanation I knew they wouldn't understand.

She hummed softly, as though digesting my answer, but didn't press for once. Instead, she shifted closer, her hand brushing against mine, and I froze at the contact. Her eyes locked on mine, studying me with an expression I couldn't place.

"Do you want to kiss me?" she whispered. Her gaze darted briefly to the corners of the room — a subtle reminder we had a role to fulfill.

I hesitated. It was a small request, but my mind rebelled against it.

Then she moved, her hand lifting to my jaw, her touch impossibly warm. I stiffened at the contact, but her green eyes held mine.

Slowly, her fingers slid to my lips, pressing against them gently.

"It's not so bad, right?" she murmured, her voice soft and coaxing.

It was the first time someone touched me this long.

I waited, expecting the familiar wave of revulsion to wash over me, to claw its way through my chest. But it didn't come.

I felt... fine.

More than fine...

I felt... curious.

I caught her wrist, my grip firm but not forceful, and moved her hand away.

My body had reacted on its own, finally unrestrained by the disgust I'd usually live with. Finally unshackled, something inside me made me move without thinking.

I leaned in and kissed her.

Her eyes widened, startled, but then they relaxed as the contact deepened. The kiss was hesitant at first as I waited for my revulsion. But instead, a foreign feeling jolted through me.

I pulled back from the kiss, staring at her in surprise, my chest heaving, my mind spinning.

I wasn't disgusted. Not at all.

In fact, I felt something far worse.

I felt addicted.