Chapter 3 Perry
PERRY
I don’t reenter the party like a normal person.
Normal people use doors meant for guests. I slip in through a narrow service entrance I clocked earlier, the kind hidden behind heavy drapes and false walls, designed for people who aren’t supposed to be remembered. In short, it’s for staff.
My heels are already back on, my mask adjusted, my red dress smoothed like I’ve never left. The house swallows me whole.
Music rolls through the ballroom in a slow, decadent wave, champagne laughter bubbling at the edges.
I take a moment just inside the threshold, letting my eyes adjust, letting the room reacquaint itself with me.
Reentry is important. You don’t want anyone tracking your movements too cleanly.
You want a little doubt. A little what-the-hell-was-that.
Mystery is an investment. It makes people ask questions, and Jason deserves to be the one without answers.
I spot Damian almost immediately, exactly where I expect him to be—parked at the edge of the ballroom, half in shadow, watching everything instead of participating. He looks like a man who could vanish if he wanted to, which is ironic considering who he is.
Silver fox doesn’t even begin to cover it.
His tux fits like it was tailored by the gods.
Broad shoulders, lean waist, the kind of body that tells me he didn’t give up just because he hit a certain age.
His hair is silver in a deliberate way, styled like he knows it works for him.
And his eyes—Jesus—bright blue, alert, sharp, the kind that miss nothing.
He’s looking for something. Or someone.
A thrill settles low in my stomach. If I played my cards right, he’s looking for me.
I don’t go straight to him. I drift first, letting the music catch me, letting my body move like I’m just another guest swept up in the night. I glide across the dance floor diagonally, long dress flowing, slit flashing just enough thigh to turn heads without begging for attention.
I don’t look at him. I let him look at me first. Let him think he’s caught me.
Slowly, I turn my head to see him and smile. When I reach him, I don’t stop. I turn smoothly, extend my hand, and let the moment breathe for half a second before I speak. “Dance with me.”
He blinks, genuinely caught off guard. Then recognition sparks.
It’s subtle but unmistakable—the way his posture shifts, the way his gaze sharpens, the slow curve of his mouth as realization hits. His blue eyes light up like I’ve just solved a puzzle he didn’t know he’d been working on.
“Why did you climb out the window?”
“Did I?” I reply with an unbroken smile.
He laughs and takes my hand without hesitation, and steps onto the dance floor with me like this is exactly where he’s supposed to be. As we fall into rhythm, his hand settles at my waist. Not grabbing. Leading.
His voice drops just enough to feel private. “You disappeared.”
I smile up at him. “I reappeared.”
He studies my face like he’s trying to figure me out.
I lean in slightly, just close enough for trouble. “Try to keep up.”
And just like that, we’re moving together—two strangers in masks, music curling around us, the night stretching wide and dangerous and very, very promising.
The music slows into something syrupy and indulgent, all bass and breath, and Damian adjusts his hand at my waist like he’s testing a theory. Not squeezing. Not claiming. Just…settling. Like he’s decided this is where it belongs for the length of the song.
We move together easily, bodies finding a rhythm that feels unreasonably intimate for two people who haven’t exchanged names. His frame is solid with a quiet kind of strength. When I glance up, those blue eyes are fixed on me with open curiosity. Not hunger—yet—but interest. Definitely interest.
“You’re very confusing,” he says, conversational, as if we’re not pressed close enough for his thigh to slide between mine when the music dips.
“Only if you don’t know me.”
His mouth tilts. “I don’t think I do. Who invited you?”
“Fate.”
“Did you say Faith?”
Hearing her name out of his mouth resets my brain for a beat. I merely smile and shake my head, before grinding a little too close on him. The distraction works, and he doesn’t press the issue, instead leaning closer still.
“Is this your sort of music?” he asks.
I give a noncommittal shrug. “All music is.”
“What should I call you?”
“Whatever you like.”
He twirls me to face him, and we stop dancing for a beat. “Who are you?”
“No one of consequence.”
For a moment, I think I’ve frustrated him too much. But then he smirks. “Do you always dance with strangers?”
“Only the interesting ones.”
“And how do you decide who’s interesting?”
“I watch. Most people want to be seen. Some want to see. The second kind is rarer. More interesting. Like you.”
His thumb presses lightly into my side, a reflex, like the compliment landed exactly where he keeps his composure. “And which kind are you?”
I smile. “Tonight? Both.”
We circle slowly, the crowd around us blurring into background noise. His hand drifts lower, just enough to toe a line. I respond by stepping closer, letting my hip settle against his, the slit in my dress doing dangerous things.
This is when the dancing changes.
It stops being polite. Our bodies move with intention now—controlled, but undeniably suggestive.
My hand slides from his shoulder to his upper arm, fingers flexing once, feeling the muscle there.
His breath changes. Just a fraction. My other hand slides into his tuxedo jacket, fingering the buttons of his shirt.
His gaze sharpens. “A pity I don’t know your name.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“What occupation?”
I lift a brow. “Anonymous woman in red.”
He laughs quietly, the sound warm and surprised, like he doesn’t do it often enough.
The song dips again, slower, heavier, and he takes advantage, drawing me closer under the guise of the rhythm.
It would be inappropriate at a formal event.
It would definitely be noticed if anyone were paying attention.
And at parties like this, someone always is. That’s why I’m here.
Still, I lean in, close enough that my mouth is near his ear, my voice low. “Relax. No one’s watching us.”
“That’s not true.”
“I didn’t say no one’s looking.”
A hand slides between us, cool and insistent, manicured fingers closing around Damian’s arm like she’s reclaiming property that wandered off. The sudden break in contact leaves my skin buzzing, heat lingering where his hand had been.
“This is my dance,” the woman says, voice tight and clipped. “You owe me.”
I step back immediately, palms lifting in a gesture that says not my fight, not my mess. I don’t need to look at her face to know exactly who she is. There’s a particular brand of entitlement that doesn’t require an introduction.
The ex-wife. I’ve seen pictures of Jason’s mom, but they don’t do her justice.
She’s stunning. Ash-blond hair, cut in a severe bob.
Cold brown eyes. Angular in every direction, the woman is rail thin.
She has the countenance of a runway model who is hell-bent on scoring the next big job. Calculating and icy.
Instead of confronting her, I merely smile and silently step back.
Damian, on the other hand, doesn’t move. Not an inch.
The music swells around us, couples shifting seamlessly into the next song, but we’re locked in place—me on one side, her on the other, him at the center of it like the axis of a problem he’s clearly tired of solving.
“I’m not dancing with you, Amber,” he says, flat and unmistakable.
She blinks, clearly not expecting that. Her grip tightens, nails pressing through fabric. “Don’t make a scene.”
“I’m not doing anything,” he replies. “I said no.”
There’s a flicker of something ugly across her face—surprise giving way to indignation, then a sharp, practiced smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
She glances at me then, really looks at me for the first time, gaze raking over my dress, my mask, the space I still occupy far too close to her ex-husband for her comfort. “And who is this?”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to.
Damian shifts, subtly but decisively, placing himself half a step closer to me and away from her. It’s not protective exactly, but it is definitive. A choice made without discussion. “That’s not your concern.”
Her mouth opens, then closes. Around us, people are starting to notice.
Curious glances flicker our way. Whispers ripple.
Amber stiffens, clearly recalibrating. She drops his arm with a sharp motion, smoothing her mask, lifting her chin like she’s regained control.
Her smile could kill. “Have it your way.”
She turns on her heel and stalks off, gold and ego trailing behind her like an afterimage. The space she leaves behind feels…lighter.
I shrug. “Occupational hazard of dancing with interesting men.”
A corner of his mouth lifts, and he laughs. It’s small, and he looks surprised by it. “After all that, you flatter me?”
“I only tell the truth.” The better to lie to you.
We stand there for a beat, the music rolling on without us, the night pressing forward. I can feel the question sitting between us, heavy and obvious.
I tilt my head toward the staircase, voice dropping just enough to feel conspiratorial. “If you’re trying to avoid a repeat performance of hers,” I say lightly, “there are places in this house she definitely won’t look.”
His gaze follows mine, then returns to my face, something dangerous and amused sparking there. “Like where?”
“I know a spot.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Lead the way.”
I don’t grab his hand. I start walking.
That’s the rule tonight—no rushing, no clinging, no obvious need. I head for the staircase like I’ve done this a thousand times, like this is my house and he’s the one trying to keep up. The dress sways with every step, and I feel his presence behind me immediately, close and deliberate.
This dress was a very good investment, and it’s about to pay off. The thought warms me more than it should.
The grand staircase is busy, but busy in a way that works in our favor.
Couples are filtering upward, laughter spilling, masks slipping just enough to blur identities.
I blend us into the movement, angling toward the narrower landing I memorized earlier—the one that leads to the quieter wing.
The one with the visiting family members’ bedrooms.
“You’re very confident,” he murmurs.
I glance at him sideways. “You followed me. No reason not to be.”
His mouth curves. “Fair.”
We reach the landing, and I don’t slow, turning into the side corridor without looking back. The noise of the party drops off immediately, replaced by hush and warm light and the faint echo of music through thick walls. The house feels different up here—less performative, more private.
I stop near a tall window overlooking the snow-covered grounds. Moonlight washes everything silver and quiet, a sharp contrast to the heat still buzzing under my skin. I turn to face him, close enough now that I have to tilt my head slightly to meet those ridiculous blue eyes.
He studies me with open curiosity, something darker threaded through it now. Anticipation, maybe. Or restraint. I’m not sure which I like more.
“This feels like a bad idea,” he mutters.
“You don’t sound convinced. And you don’t look convinced, wearing that smile.”
“I rarely am,” he admits. “But I’m usually right.”
“Don’t get predictable on me now.” I take a half step closer, invading his space just enough to test it.
He doesn’t retreat. Doesn’t advance either. He just watches, alert, like he’s choosing his next move carefully. He considers me for a long moment. “Tell me why you came back.”
I shrug. “I like unfinished conversations.”
“I prefer to finish them.”
I lay my hands on his chest. “And how do you want to finish this one?”
He leans in close, smelling like leather. When he slants his mouth over mine, electricity zips through my core.
Revenge never tasted so sweet.