Lucifer always asserted—with absolute conviction—that between him and his dancers there was nothing but money, professionalism, and a practical sense of convenience. No emotional ties, no personal motives, no interests beyond the obvious. He said this so naturally that he seemed to believe it.

But, to anyone observing the situation from the outside, the story was quite different.

He walked beside you as if you were more than just an employee—as if you were his official escort, his lady-in-waiting, his personal treasure. His touches along your spine, as subtle as they were calculated, betrayed something more. The way his fingers played with the cords around your neck, entangling themselves in them with a touch that went beyond the casual. And, above all, how his hands slid down your lower back with an almost… affectionate gentleness. A tenderness that even the Devil himself would never admit aloud.

And, of course, there were the hidden gestures—those that no client, employee, or curious onlooker could see.

His insistence on always helping you put on your heels, as if it were a silent ritual that only the two of you understood. The care with which he zipped up your dress, pulling slowly, almost reverently. The absurdly expensive gifts he placed in your hands with a satisfied smile, anxiously awaiting the moment you would use them—for him.

The truth? He spoiled you in a way he never spoiled anyone else.

But feelings? No, never. Of course not.

At least, that's what he repeated to himself.

Today was just another chapter in this strange charade.

He didn't even read the entire invitation to the event they'd been invited to. He didn't know the theme, the importance, or who would be there. The only part that really caught his attention was the phrase "With the right to bring a guest." And that was enough for him to send to your apartment an outfit he was absolutely certain would look divine on you—chosen with almost obsessive precision.

No feelings, evidently. Just aesthetics. That's all.

Now, he was sprawled on the sofa in his apartment, legs spread, posture relaxed, as if you weren't occupying his thoughts any more than he'd like to admit. He waited patiently while you finished getting ready in the bathroom.

Then, the soft sound of a click echoed through the room. The door opened.

And, for a moment, everything stopped.

You emerged with your chunky heels dangling from your hand, your body illuminated by the warm bathroom light, and a smile on your face that indicated you already knew exactly the effect you would have on him.

Lucifer felt his breath catch for a moment—imperceptible to anyone else, but not to him.

"Wow… you… wow," he said, letting out a wide, completely disarming smile. With a fluid gesture, he reached out and took the heels from your hand.

"Come, sit down. I want to do the honors."