12. Valaria
Valaria
The mirror is too honest. It reflects the apprehension in my face.
I adjust my neckline for the third time. The gown, slit to the thigh, is designed to say confidence, control. Danger. It says all of that. But under the surface, my heart flutters.
Because tonight, I must pretend Pietro is mine. It’s too close to the truth.
I see his reflection in the mirror. His hands are in his pockets trapping his jacket behind his arms like grasshopper wings. Collar undone. Bow tie hanging lazily from his neck like a challenge. His eyes are locked on my ass.
I whisper into the mic discreetly hidden in my diamond drop earring.
“You’re not invisible.”
His head snaps to attention—walks in.
I don’t turn. “Do you own a single shirt that isn’t wrinkled?”
“I like a little imperfection,” he says, stepping closer. “Makes things interesting.”
He’s exasperating. And unfairly beautiful. I don’t trust men who look like that—like bad ideas wearing a tux.
“Zip me,” I say, because I’d rather let him zip my dress than unzip my thoughts.
He hesitates. Then steps behind me. His fingers brush the small of my back.
The zipper hums upward. Slowly. Too slowly.
“You smell like citrus,” he says.
“Bergamot.”
He stands back—whistles.
“Is there enough room for a gun in there?”
“Plenty.” I meet his eyes in the mirror. “We’re not doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“This flirtation game. This heat-and-hate farce.”
“We’re lovers—were lovers,” he says with a shrug. “Or pretending to be. Same difference.”
I turn on him. “It’s not the same. One is safe. The other is… catastrophic.”
He moves closer. “And which do you think we’re doing?”
My body betrays me again—leaning in when I should push away.
“We should rehearse,” I say, voice tight.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “We should.”
We sit on the velvet settee, facing each other. The mission file lies open between us: names, alliances, hidden motives. The gala is crawling with risk.
We read our lines. Practice our cover story. We’re Carlotta and Lorenzo: lovers reunited after a ball-busting breakup. Publicly volatile. Privately passionate.
Easy to play.
He reaches for my hand, as part of the act. Our fingers touch.
And it’s too much.
The electricity between us is no longer ignorable. It’s a living, breathing thing clawing at the surface.
I hesitate to pull away.
“No touching.”
He nods, jaw tight. “You’re right.”
But he doesn’t move. And neither do I.
Because for one wild second, we’re both imagining what would happen if we stopped pretending.
What would happen if we crossed the line. Again.