"Just wait for a moment.." He spoke.

You felt sick to your stomach after the sight of seeing your pretend lover being awfully close to another.

You couldn't quite understand what the feeling was, but you knew you had to get out of there. You dashed your way out of the ballroom to the gardens.

The cold bite of the night air did little to quell the storm raging within you. The gardens stretched before you, a maze of perfectly manicured hedges and neatly arranged flowers, yet they offered no sanctuary from the confusion clawing at your chest.

You could still see them, the image seared into your mind—him leaning in too close, laughing too easily with the daughter of Lord Whitmore.

You had no claim on him. You had both made that abundantly clear when you concocted this charade. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement—a ruse to satisfy the society that buzzed around you both.

For you, this façade promised a string of suitors, each vying for your attention, hoping to be the one to tame the woman who could ensnare a man like him. For him, it was an escape—an escape from the constant barrage of hopeful mothers, their daughters thrown at him like prizes to be won.

It had been perfect. Uncomplicated.

Until now.

The more time you spent together, the more the lines blurred, the more he started to seep into your thoughts. The more you felt the tug of something deeper. It was maddening. Unwanted. You weren't supposed to feel anything.

You heard his footsteps approaching long before he reached you. You should have run—fled further into the garden. But your feet refused to move, betraying you as thoroughly as your heart had.

He stopped a few paces behind you, his breath catching in the night air.

"I suspected you might find your way here," he began, his voice low, but rich with that ever-present self-control.

"I was… merely conversing. Nothing more," he continued, the words seemingly meant to soothe, but the tension in his voice betrayed something deeper. "You know the ruse we play."