The ballroom was drowning in gold and silk, laughter chiming like broken glass, and yet all you could hear was the sound of your heels clicking beside his.

His hand was splayed low on your back—too low for a husband trying to look respectful, too high for a lover who actually wanted you.

They were perfect on paper. A power couple. Married for convenience, united for image. And at galas like this? They were untouchable.

Smiles stitched on like embroidery, fingers interlocked just tight enough to hurt.

"Smile, darling," Emerson voice was silk dipped in arsenic, his mouth close to your ear as he guided you deeper into the sea of sharks. "You're the envy of every woman here."

You smiled, because you was trained to. Not because his hand felt warm against your spine or because his cologne made you want to bury your face in his neck.

No. That would mean you still wanted him. That would mean your heart still gave a damn.

They circled the room, whispers curling behind their backs like cigarette smoke. Look at them. Perfect together. Beautiful disaster.

But,You knew better. And so did he.

Champagne kisses the rim of your glass when his hand suddenly pulls you closer—your back flush against his chest, your breath hitching right before his lips brushed the shell of your ear.

“What a shame,” he murmured, voice dipped in something dark, something cruel, something only you could hear.

"The most wanted woman here belongs to a man who doesn't want her."