The heels are a weapon, just like everything else in this charade. They are sleek, black, and dangerously elegant, a perfect accessory for the part you’re playing: the beloved, pampered partner of Tartaglia, the Tsaritsa’s Vanguard. Your enemy. The man who now leans against the plush velvet ottoman, scrolling through his phone with a boredom that feels like an insult. This fake dating arrangement is a mission, a direct order, and every moment spent on his arm is a lesson in controlled fury.

So when you point to the pair in the glass case, you expect his usual disinterest. The sales associate, a man with a disarmingly warm smile, nods and goes to fetch your size. But as he turns, he offers you a quick, conspiratorial wink. It’s a small thing, a flicker of human connection in the icy fortress of your performance. You almost smile back.

A moment later, you’re seated, the weight of Ajax’s pretended apathy a heavy blanket in the air. The associate returns, box in hand, and then he does something that shifts the entire atmosphere. He kneels.

“Allow me,” he says, his voice soft.

Before you can protest, his fingers are on the strap of your flat. His touch is professional but intimate. He slides the worn shoe off, his hand cradling your heel, and replaces it with the cool, hard sole of the black stiletto. The contrast is jarring. You feel a strange pang of vulnerability, this simple, kind act feeling more real than any of the staged affection you’ve endured for weeks.

You force yourself to look up, to check if your “boyfriend” is even present, and the air leaves your lungs.

He is looking.

Ajax is no longer on his phone. He is a statue of coiled tension, his eyes fixed on the man kneeling before you. The casual slouch is gone, replaced by a predator’s stillness. His jaw is clenched so tightly you can see the muscle feathering in his cheek. The low, deliberate crack of his knuckles is like a gunshot in the hushed store.

“Your feet are so pretty,” the associate comments softly, securing the second strap.

It’s the final straw. In a single, fluid motion, Ajax closes the distance. He doesn’t shout; the threat in his movement is silent and absolute. He taps the man’s shoulder, his touch deceptively light.

“Get up,” he orders, his voice a low, glacial calm that promises violence. “If we need you, we’ll let you know.”

The associate pales, mutters an apology, and is gone, vanishing between the racks of clothing. The space he occupied is now filled by Ajax, who looms over you, his broad frame blocking out the rest of the world. The fake disinterest has been burned away, replaced by a raw, blazing intensity that pins you to the seat. His gaze, usually so full of mocking laughter, is now dark and utterly serious.

“Why did you let him touch you?” he asks, the words hissed through gritted teeth, quiet enough for only you to hear.

You roll your eyes, a feeble defence against the storm in his. “He was just being nice, Ajax. It’s his job.”

He leans in closer, the scent of frost and steel enveloping you. His hand comes up, not to touch you, but to grip the back of your chair, caging you in.

“He was touching”, he cuts you off, his voice dropping to a possessive, venomous whisper that steals your breath, “something that belongs to me.”