Chapter Four
The heavy oak door of my study clicks shut, sealing out the rest of the penthouse. It’s silent in here, the air filtered and cool. It smells of old books and the faint, sharp scent of gun oil that always seems to cling to me no matter how expensive the laundry service is.
I turn the ring on my finger, letting the band catch the light. The black onyx stone is cold, matte against my skin. It’s ugly. Brutish. Not the kind of jewelry a man like Ayaan Smith should have been wearing, yet he never took it off. It clearly holds sentimental value. A fatal flaw.
If I were a superstitious man, I’d say it carried a curse. Except I don’t believe in curses; I believe in consequences. Ayaan played a game he couldn’t afford, and he lost.
I stare at the band, thinking about the look on Freya’s face when she saw it. The way the blood drained from her cheeks, the terror in her eyes. It wasn’t just grief; it was recognition. She knew exactly what it meant.
That’s why she got in the car.
She didn’t fight me at the gala because she realized she was outmatched. She got in the SUV tonight because she realized she was out of options.
Sliding the ring back into the small velvet box, I lock it away. The safe thuds shut, the painting swinging back to cover it. It’s served its purpose. It bought me her compliance.
She agreed to play along too easily. A woman with her fire, her defiance, doesn’t just roll over because of a fake engagement. She has an agenda. She thinks she’s going to use this access to find her brother.
Let her try.
It keeps her close. It keeps her where I can see her. And if she gets too close to the truth, I’ll deal with her then. For now, she’s a useful pawn. A beautiful, volatile distraction that the media will eat up while I handle the real business.
I check my watch—7:00 PM.
The benefit dinner at the Met starts in an hour. It’s the first real test. If she cracks tonight, the narrative falls apart.
***
The town car idles outside the entrance to her building. When the lobby door opens, she steps out, and I feel a distinct shift in my composure.
She’s not wearing the green dress from the gala.
This one is midnight blue, velvet and sleek, hugging her torso before flaring out just above the knee.
It’s sophisticated, regal, and it shows off her body in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
Her hair is pinned up in an artful mess of curls, exposing the long, pale line of her neck.
She climbs into the backseat, and the scent of her hits me. Sweet vanilla and jasmine. She doesn’t look at me, just smooths the velvet over her thighs and stares out the window.
“You look acceptable,” I say, letting my eyes trace the curve of her waist.
“Thanks,” she replies, her voice tight. “You look… like you.”
I chuckle. “I’ll take that.”
As the car merges with traffic, I watch her. She’s vibrating with tension. Her hands are clasped tightly in her lap, her knuckles white.
“Nervous?”
“No,” she states, turning to look at me. The green eyes are bright, almost feverish. “If I’m going to be your fiancée, I need to act the part. That means I need to know who I’m fooling.”
“You’re fooling everyone,” I tell her. “You just need to fool them into thinking you’re in love with me.”
“In love?” She scoffs. “Let’s aim for tolerating.”
“Tolerating is boring. The press wants a story. Give them a glimpse of heat.”
“I can do heat,” she says, her chin lifting in defiance. “Just don’t expect me to fake an orgasm in public.”
I smirk. “We’ll start with hand-holding and work our way up.”
***
The Met is a zoo. Flashbulbs go off like strobe lights as we exit the car. I place my hand on the small of her back, feeling the heat of her skin through the velvet. She stiffens for a fraction of a second, then relaxes, melting into the touch.
She’s good. Better than I expected.
We walk the red carpet, stopping for photos. She turns her body toward mine, tilting her head, resting her hand on my chest. She smiles, and it looks genuine. It reaches her eyes, crinkling the corners. Anyone looking would see a woman swept off her feet.
I feel the pull of her. It’s annoying how attractive she is. It would be easier if she were plain, but she’s vibrant and sharp, with a body that makes my hands itch to grab her.
Inside, the air is thick with perfume and the clinking of champagne flutes. We are immediately surrounded by investors, board members, and socialites. They swarm, hungry for the gossip.
“Nikita! Congratulations!” a portly man in a tuxedo booms, clapping me on the shoulder. “And this must be the mysterious Freya.”
“Charmed,” she says, offering her hand. He kisses it, and she doesn’t flinch. “A pleasure, Mr. Van der Hoven.”
“Quite the article you wrote,” he says, chuckling nervously. “Had us all worried for a moment.”
“Rumor mill,” she says dismissively, waving a hand. “I have a flair for the dramatic. Nikita knows that.”
“Do I ever,” I murmur, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her flush against my side. “She keeps me on my toes.”
She leans into me, playing the part perfectly. She laughs at their jokes, nods sympathetically at their concerns, and deflects every question about the exposé with ease.
I watch her closely. I’m looking for cracks, but I don’t see any.
We move through the crowd, a seamless unit. We stop to talk to a senator, a tech mogul, and the editor of the Times. Every time, she hits the right note. Charming, intelligent, just vulnerable enough to be endearing.
Then, we sit for dinner.
We’re at a round table with six other people; CEOs, philanthropists, people whose names are on buildings. The conversation flows around us.
I watch Freya cut her steak, her movements graceful and precise. She takes a sip of wine, her eyes scanning the room.
Under the table, in the shadows cast by the white linen, I reach out.
My hand finds her knee.
I just rest my palm there, my fingers curling around the inside of her thigh. It’s possessive. It’s a claim.
She freezes. The fork pauses halfway to her mouth. Her gaze snaps to me, wide and startled.
I don’t look at her. I keep my eyes on the man across the table, nodding at something he’s saying about interest rates.
I feel her. Her leg is tense, the muscle hard beneath my hand. She’s not pulling away or slapping my hand off.
She’s letting me touch her.
Slowly, I slide my hand up, just an inch. Just enough to make a point.
Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t stop me. She takes a sip of wine, her fingers tightening around the stem of the glass.
I turn to her then, locking eyes. The air between us crackles. She’s challenging me to see how far I’ll go, and I’m challenging her to see how much she can take.
I raise an eyebrow, a silent question.
She swallows, her throat moving. Then, she sets the glass down and covers my hand with hers. Her fingers are warm, slim.
Freya presses my hand harder into her thigh, her nails digging into my skin.
The message is clear.
Heat flares in my gut, sharp and sudden. I want to push her back against her chair and devour that defiant mouth. I want to see how much of that fire is real and how much is a bluff.
Instead, I smile, a slow, dangerous curve of my lips, and squeeze her thigh before pulling my hand away.
She exhales, a shaky breath she disguises as a sigh of boredom.
As the dinner winds down, the band strikes up a slow, waltz-like melody. Couples begin to migrate to the dance floor.
“Shall we?” I ask, standing and offering her my hand.
She looks at it, then up at me. For a second, I think she’ll refuse. She looks like she’d rather stab me with her fork.
Then she takes my hand. “Why not?”
I lead her onto the floor. The lights dim, casting the room in a soft, romantic glow. I pull her into my arms, one hand settling on her lower back, the other taking her hand.
We start to move. She follows my lead easily. She’s a good dancer—light on her feet, responsive to my cues.
I hold her closer than is strictly necessary for a waltz. Our bodies brush with every step. Her hips graze mine, her breasts pressing against my chest. She smells incredible, a mix of vanilla and adrenaline.
“You’re enjoying this,” she murmurs, her breath hot against my neck.
“Enjoying what?”
“Playing house. Pretending I’m not the enemy.”
“Who says you’re the enemy?” I whisper, spinning her. The velvet of her dress flares out, brushing my legs. “You’re my fiancée, remember? That makes you my partner.”
“In crime, maybe,” she quips, but her voice is breathless.
I pull her back in, grinding to a halt in the middle of the floor. The music swells around us, but I ignore it. I look down at her, searching her face.
She looks up at me, her eyes wide, her lips parted. There’s fear there, yes, but there’s something else too.
It’s the same thing I felt in the car. That magnetic pull that defies logic.
“I told you,” I say, my voice low, dropping so only she can hear. “This isn’t temporary, Freya. You’re not just a headline to me. You’re part of the narrative now.”
The song ends, and I release her, but I don’t step away. I keep my hand on her back, guiding her off the floor. The crowd watches us, murmuring their approval. The photos will be everywhere by morning.
I’ve won the night. The engagement is real in their eyes.
As I feel the warmth of her skin through the velvet, I know the real war is just beginning. She thinks she’s using me to find her brother. She thinks she’s the one playing the game.
She has no idea she’s already been played.
As I watch the fire burning in her eyes, I realize I’m looking forward to breaking her.