Doris Elizabeth Corday

"I told you not to call me that," I said, reaching toward his hair.

Mr. Illion's gloved hand caught my wrist effortlessly as he arched his brow, his grip firm but controlled.

"Whatever you plan to do," he warned with a hint of amusement. "I can repay tenfold."

I froze, weighing my options against the quiet threat in his tone. His calm exterior only made him more unpredictable, more dangerous. Deciding not to test his resolve, I shrugged off his grip, trying to maintain a semblance of control.

"I don't feel like dancing anymore," I said, feigning indifference as I took a step back.

His eyes narrowed.

"As your fiancé," he said smoothly, "I'm afraid I must insist."

I met his gaze, unimpressed by the title.

"Maybe if you treated me like a lover and not a dog, I might indulge you," I retorted.

"Oh?" His lips curled into a slow smirk as he closed the distance between us.

My breath stilled, my body betraying me as the air around us thickened. His proximity was disarming, a sharp contrast to his usual measured distance.

"So," he continued, his voice dropping slightly, "tell me what I should do, then. As your lover."

I hated how he was getting an upper hand here.

"Don't act cocky," I said, turning away as if dismissing him. "We both know you're clueless when it comes to that stuff."

The words barely left my lips before his hand shot out, gripping my arm and pulling me back to him.

"I'm a fast learner," he said, his smirk deepening as his eyes flickered to my neck. "And if you've nothing to teach, I could always rely on instinct. Though," his gaze lingered just long enough to make my skin prickle, "I don't think you liked it last time I did that."

Heat rushed to my face.

"Fine," I snapped. "Let's see if you even know how to dance."

I placed my gloved hand in his, my chest tightening as he guided us toward the center of the ballroom. The music swelled around us, a romantic melody that filled the air with a sense of intimacy that felt far too personal.

His other hand rested at my waist, his touch intimate yet restrained as he turned me to face him. Instinctively, I stiffened, a rush of wariness flooding me. Giving control to him felt frustrating.

And yet, I couldn't deny the curiosity that simmered beneath my caution.

"Can you really dance?" I asked with a scoff.

"Like I said, Doris," he smirked, "I'm a fast learner."

My brows furrowed, but before I could protest, he swept me into the dance.

The initial steps were tentative, his movements careful, almost too careful. His grip was light, his steps just a beat off, as though he were testing the waters. It was far better than I'd expected for someone who should've been dancing for the first time.

But then something shifted.

The hesitation vanished, replaced by a startling fluidity. His steps became confident, each movement sharp and precise, as if he wasn't just listening to the music but molding it to his will. It wasn't long before I realized he wasn't following the rhythm — he was commanding it.

"Is this really your first time?" I asked skeptically.

He raised a dark brow, his smirk as sharp as the glint in his eyes.

"Why?" he asked with arrogance. "Just because it's my first time doesn't mean I can't be good at it."

Heat crept up my neck, a blush betraying me for no good reason.

"I suppose you're good at everything you do," I said with a scoff.

"Of course."

"You're not very good at being humble."

"We might have that in common."

The unexpected remark pulled a chuckle from me, one I hadn't meant to let slip. The tension between us shifted, the stiffness of our earlier steps dissolving as we moved in sync, gliding effortlessly across the floor.

"I haven't lost enough to be humble," I said.

His smirk deepened.

"I could teach you how to lose."

"Yes, I suppose you'd be the expert," I shot back without missing a beat.

Mr. Illion laughed, a rich sound that caught me off guard. For a second, I couldn't look away. It was like watching a crack in the armor he always wore, a glimpse of something unguarded. The sharpness in his features softened, and before I could stop myself, my own defenses began to waver.

"That mouth of yours, Doris," he said, his voice low and teasing, "it's both your undoing and your saving grace."

I barely registered his words before my heel came down on his polished shoe.

He sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes narrowing.

"Ouch."

"I told you to call me Beth," I grumbled.

"I prefer Doris," he replied.

"Why?"

He didn't answer, just smirked, and the sight made my blood boil. He was doing it on purpose, just to see me react.

"Fine, Rob," I bit out, leaning into the name like a weapon. "If we're getting so personal, I'll be sure to return the favor."

His smirk only grew.

"I think we've already gotten quite personal," he said smoothly, his words carrying an undertone that sent a ripple of heat through me.

Instantly, my mind flickered to our arrangement and the precarious line we'd been walking. What had started as a means to an end, getting close enough to uncover his secrets, sometimes felt like a game where I was the one being played.

This man didn't know the first thing about romance. He was moving entirely on instinct.

And instinct could be dangerous.

"How long will this fake engagement last?" I asked suddenly.

The humor in Rob's expression dimmed, though not entirely. He spun me out, the black fabric of my gown flaring like midnight stars, before pulling me back into his arms with ease.

"Until this business with Alistair is done," he said.

I forced a smirk, trying to lighten the tension.

"I hope your family doesn't give you a hard time. I think they like me."

"They do."

His response was simple, but his gaze lingered. The moment stretched, heavy with something unspoken.

My smirk faltered and I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his focus settle over me.

"Well... you should have a proper fiancée soon, so it doesn't matter," I said, my tone overly casual. "Once we complete our, uh, intimacy agreement, you'll be free to date whoever you want."

"That is the plan," he said with a sigh.

The seriousness of the moment unnerved me, so I tried to deflect with humor.

"Or what? Maybe you're actually falling for me?" I teased, forcing a laugh. "Oh, I should be careful not to take things too far with you, or you'll never let me go."

But my words didn't land. His expression remained unchanged, his eyes locked onto mine with unnerving intensity.

"I don't know what you were expecting," he said slowly, his voice lowering, "but our agreement only ends after we go all the way. After all, my concerns about marriage involve trying for a child."

The blood drained from my face.

I had agreed to this without fully considering what it meant — how far it would go.

The realization washed over me, and my mind spiraled. The words trying for a child echoing in my head. It wasn't the act itself that scared me but the terrifying possibility of pregnancy.

My thoughts veered sharply to my mother, and I was forced to remember Alistair's ominous words.

What does he know about her?

Rob's grip on me tightened, grounding me, forcing my eyes back to his.

"You're shaking," he murmured, his tone softer now. "Are you that appalled?"

I shook my head quickly.

"No, no, it's not that. I was just... thinking about something else."

His gaze bore into me.

"What?"

I bit my lip, weighing the risk of telling him. But Alistair's warning echoed in my mind, and I couldn't chance it.

"It's nothing important," I lied.

Rob didn't react immediately, but the air between us grew heavier, taut with unspoken tension. His grip shifted subtly, pulling me closer, and we moved together as if testing the boundaries of something neither of us wanted to name.

"Doesn't it bother you?" I asked without meaning to. "Pretending to be with someone like me?"

His gaze darkened.

"What would that mean?"

I shrugged, my tone bitter despite myself.

"You barely tolerate me. I doubt I meet your standards. Surely you must be embarrassed to be seen with me."

For a moment, his only response was silence. His eyes stayed locked on mine as we spun, his hold firm but disarmingly careful, as though he feared I might shatter beneath his touch.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, steady, and meant only for me.

"You meet my standards quite well. You're a hard worker. Determined."

Something flickered in his eyes then — something raw and fleeting, a glimpse of unguarded truth. But just as quickly, it vanished, buried beneath his practiced indifference.

"Rob..." My voice wavered, caught between the push and pull of my emotions.

It wasn't just the dance anymore, wasn't just the pretense. It was the way he held me, the way his presence seemed to fill the spaces I didn't realize were empty.

His hand slid lower on my back, drawing me closer still, his warmth seeping into my skin.

That was the thing about Rob. No matter how cold he appeared, his touch was warm.

"We might just be playing a part," he murmured. "But I still chose you for this role. I wouldn't have, if I didn't believe you could pull it off."

His words were clinical, cold even, but his touch betrayed him. The way he anchored me to him felt too intimate for something so calculated.

I could feel his pulse under his gloves, a muted drum beat that matched my own. Logic screamed at me to step away, to remember who he was. But as we swayed in unison, the boundaries between our act and reality blurred.

For a fleeting moment, I let myself wonder.

Could this be more than a game? Could he be more than my enemy?

But the question remained unanswered as the music slowed, the spell of the moment breaking apart.

The final note hung in the air, a haunting echo.

Rob stepped back, his fingers lingering at my waist as if reluctant to let go, the warmth of his touch dissolving into the cold air between us. When he finally withdrew, the absence hit me like the bite of winter.

"I suppose you'll get to work now," he said, his voice clipped, a mask of indifference settling over him.

I nodded.

"Yeah."

Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving me stranded at the edge of the dance floor with an erratic pulse and a mind that refused to quiet.

I exhaled sharply, forcing my thoughts to untangle.

I couldn't afford this — not now, not ever. Rob was a distraction I couldn't indulge, no matter how much his presence unsettled me, no matter how much I hated the way he seemed to linger in my head.

The crowd near the bar was thicker, a scene of laughter, clinking glasses, and careless flirtations. I snagged a flute of champagne from a passing tray as I scanned the room.

And then I saw him.

Jack.

He stood near the edge of the room, gesturing grandly with his scotch glass, his laughter rising as his entourage hung on his every word.

I was sure he wouldn't recognize me.

But I couldn't approach him as Rob's fiancée either... Not without raising suspicions.

I set my untouched champagne on a nearby tray, slipping away from the ballroom's opulence and toward a discreetly marked door.

The hallway beyond was a sharp contrast to the glitz outside, smelling of cooking oil and freshly pressed linens. Waitstaff bustled past, their movements brisk and purposeful, paying me no mind.

In the supply room, I found what I needed — a rack of waiter uniforms. Wasting no time, I shed my gown, slipping into a crisp white shirt and black vest that fit poorly but would suffice in the ballroom's dim lighting. I twisted my hair into a tight bun and grabbed an empty tray, slipping seamlessly into the flow of staff as I reentered the crowded room.

Jack was still where I'd left him, his arrogance practically radiating off him. He commanded attention with every exaggerated gesture, drawing all eyes to himself — and none to me.

Circling the room, I timed my approach carefully. With a fresh glass of champagne in hand, I angled toward him, letting my steps falter just enough to make it believable.

The glass tipped in my hand, the golden liquid arcing through the air before splashing across his expensive red shirt in a brilliant stain.

"Oh no! Sir, I am so sorry!" I gasped, my voice high-pitched and flustered as I reached for the cloth on my tray.

Jack's face twisted in outrage, his polished veneer cracking.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Watch where you're going!" he barked.

"I'm so sorry, Sir," I said again, my hands working quickly, dabbing at the stain with feigned desperation. My fingers brushed the inside of his jacket, feeling for the card I knew he kept there.

His irritation deepened, his scotch glass sloshing in his grip.

"Just leave it! You're making it worse!"

"Please, Sir, let me fix it," I said, my tone pitched perfectly — frazzled, apologetic, harmless.

My fingers brushed against the card tucked into his pocket, curling around its edge.

Jack shoved my hand away, his scowl darkening.

"Forget it! I'll handle it myself."

He stalked off toward the coatroom, muttering curses under his breath, the stain spreading across his shirt. I stepped back, bowing my head just enough to appear chastised, while the card slipped seamlessly into my pocket.

Straightening my tray, I smoothed my expression into the same practiced neutrality as the other waiters, blending back into the flow of the crowd. The card pressed against my thigh felt like triumph, but I didn't let it show.

Invisible, just as I needed to be, I slipped through the server's door, the faintest flicker of a smile tugging at my lips.

Jack wouldn't realize he'd been played, not until the game was already over.

The hallway was quiet, save for the distant clinking of glasses and the murmur of music seeping through the walls. My steps were quick, purposeful, as I headed toward the supply room, but a sharp voice cut through the air like a whip.

"You there!"

I froze, turning to face an angry-looking woman, her sharp eyes narrowing as she sized me up.

"Go to the gardens and make sure the ashtrays are cleaned!"

"Yes, ma'am!" I said, pivoting before she could scrutinize me further.

As I slipped through the doors leading to the gardens, my fingers brushed the card in my pocket, a silent reassurance. The night air hit me like a balm, cool against my flushed skin. Laughter and the faint strains of music drifted through the garden, mingling with the scent of smoke.

I moved quickly, darting between tables and clearing ashtrays with practiced ease, keeping my head down and my movements efficient. But just as I was about to head back inside, a familiar voice caught my attention.

I peeked around the corner, careful to stay hidden. Rob stood there, his posture taut, his presence commanding even in the shadows. Across from him, Coy leaned in, his expression tense, their voices low but edged with urgency.

"This isn't sustainable," Coy was saying, his words heavy with warning. "You're playing a dangerous game, Sir."

Rob's shoulders were tense, his head tilted slightly downward as though the weight of his choices had physically pressed against him. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady, but the undertone of finality in his words chilled me.

"I know," he said. "That's why I need to handle this soon."

Handle what?

The question burned in my mind as I pressed myself tighter against the wall, my breath caught somewhere between curiosity and dread.

Coy's derisive snort broke the silence, sharp and mocking.

"And what happens after your use of Miss Corday is done?" he asked. "She knows too much already."

"I know," Rob replied, his tone unnervingly calm.

"You... You don't plan to let her walk away do you?"

Rob's silence was his answer.

"You'll kill her," Coy said almost in disbelief.

My heart plummeted, a cold sweat tracing a line down my spine.

"You're right," Rob said.

The words hit me like a physical blow. My breath hitched, my chest tightening as the brutal reality of his words set in.

He'd dispose of me once I had no use.

From the beginning, this was likely the only ending he had in mind.

The only reason I was still breathing was because he needed me.

Betrayal curled hot and sharp in my chest, but as quickly as it came, I crushed it.

This wasn't betrayal. It was exactly what I should have expected.

He'd warned me from the beginning, hadn't he? He'd never pretended to be anything other than a man who saw people as tools — disposable and replaceable.

How could I have been so stupid to think, even for a fleeting moment, that he might see me as something more?

I slipped away from the wall, every step restrained, every movement quiet as I retreated toward the backroom. Fury simmered beneath my skin, a fire that burned hotter with each passing second.

If Rob thought he could play me, he was dead wrong.