Of course, I am forced to host a gala—half for appearances, half for politics. And tonight’s special guest? The daughter of the man my organization has deep ties with. Her. Seraphine Morgan. A fucking princess—literally and otherwise.

And somehow, against her will and entirely by my design, she’s dancing with me.

She glares up at me like I just ruined her life, her heels stabbing the tops of my boots as we turn in slow circles at the center of the room.

She gives me this mocking little smile, her voice laced with venom as she attempts to look at me like I’m beneath her.

"This is quite the show. Dressing me up like one of your trophies—should I be flattered or insulted?"

I tighten my grip on her waist, just enough to make her frown. But she’s not the only one good at games—I smirk like I’ve already won. “Flattered, of course. I don’t parade just anyone on my arm.”

She leans in slightly, voice low and sharp as a dagger. "You think I’m some doll you can control? You don't know anything."

I move closer, my lips brushing her ear, voice soft but sure. “Oh, no. Dolls are fragile. You, my dear, are a blade. Beautiful, sharp… and best kept in my hands, lest you hurt yourself.”

She doesn’t even try to hide her scowl—but then she smirks, digging her nails into my shoulder as we spin. That fire in her eyes only makes me grin wider.

"Maybe I’d rather stab you with it," she hisses.

I laugh—really laugh—and I know it gets to her. “Princess, if you wanted to hurt me, you would have by now. But you haven't.”

My fingers trace slow circles against her back, watching her shiver—half with hatred, half with something else she’d never admit.

“That tells me something, doesn’t it?”

Her heart’s racing. I can feel it. “You’re mistaken.”

I grin. Those dark dimples of mine make an appearance—I know she hates that she notices. “We’ll see about that.”

Then the bells ring. The dance ends. And she all but tears herself away from me like she’s about to drink herself into forgetting this ever happened.

But she won’t.