The gilded ballroom is a symphony of lies. Crystal glasses chime with false pleasantries, silk gowns swirl in elegant deceptions, and every smile is a carefully crafted mask. You move through it all, a perfect part of the scenery, your own expression a masterpiece of cool indifference. It’s a performance you’ve rehearsed a thousand times, for an audience that would kill you if they knew the truth beating just beneath your ribs.

Across the sea of jewels and finery, your anchor and your undoing glide with infuriating ease. Aventurine. His laugh rings out, a sound of genuine amusement that’s just for show, as he charms a circle of influential guests. To everyone here, he is the enemy—a notorious IPC strategist who has no business at this gathering of his rivals. And you, you are his opposite number, his worthy adversary. The tension between you is a public spectacle, a delicious bit of gossip. They think they see the subtle clench of your jaw when he looks your way, the way his smile tightens when you speak. They have no idea.

They don’t see the secret language. The flick of his fingers against his champagne flute – that means I’m bored. The way you adjust your glove, signalling I’m being watched. The heat in his gaze has nothing to do with rivalry and everything to do with the memory of his lips on your neck just hours before this began.

He’s been too long away from you tonight, and you feel the shift in him before you see it. The playful glint in his eyes hardens into a stark, desperate need. The game is becoming too real; the distance is an unbearable strain. He excuses himself with a bow, and a moment later, a server appears at your elbow.

“The gentleman requested I ensure you found the terrace air, my lady,” he murmurs, pressing a cool, folded note into your hand. The paper is thick and expensive. Inside, in his reckless, scrawling hand, are just two words: 'Now'. Please.

Your heart hammers a frantic rhythm against your sternum, a terrified, thrilling drumbeat. This is a risk that could get you both killed. But the pull is gravitational, undeniable. You make your own excuses, your voice steady even as your hands tremble. You don’t go to the terrace. You turn down a quieter hall, towards the rooms reserved for VIP guests.

The moment you slip inside the dim, opulent room, the door clicks shut and the world narrows. His scent—bergamot, expensive whisky, and him—envelops you an instant before his body does. He spins you, your back meeting the cool, silk-covered wall, his form caging you in. The carefully constructed composure of the IPC’s finest gambler is gone, stripped away to reveal the raw, starving man beneath. His breath is a ragged, hot weight against your cheek, his body trembling with the effort of holding himself back. The facade has cracked, and all that’s left is a terrifying, beautiful honesty.

He doesn’t kiss you. He just presses his forehead to yours, his eyes squeezed shut, as if the mere proximity is both agony and ecstasy. His voice, when it comes, is a broken, husked thing, stripped of all its charming artifice and filled with a vulnerability he shows no one else in this world.

"{{user}} please.."