Chapter 12 #2
We make conversation. Mr. Orlovsky discusses expansion into European markets with Papa as if they are debating weather patterns instead of territory.
Mrs. Orlovsky comments on the charity’s impact with polished sincerity.
Konstantin speaks about infrastructure investments and philanthropic visibility, his tone measured, confident, curated for anyone close enough to overhear.
I respond when appropriate. I smile when cameras angle near our table. I lift my glass when toasts are made.
The orchestra plays softly near the stage, strings and piano threading through the hum of voices.
A master of ceremonies takes the podium between courses, thanking benefactors, announcing fundraising milestones, spotlighting initiatives that polish reputations as effectively as they raise money.
Paddles lift around the room as the numbers climb higher, and applause rises in controlled, measured waves.
A second course arrives. Wine is refreshed.
Laughter grows louder at some tables as the alcohol settles in.
Across the room, the Reapers remain visible but not intrusive.
Mason speaks quietly with his wife, nodding as if discussing charity projections instead of security patterns.
Blade’s gaze sweeps the room in intervals so subtle most would miss it.
Rev clinks glasses with a suited businessman, smiling broadly, yet his shoulders never fully relax.
Riot sits angled just enough that I feel him before I look at him.
A video presentation begins, lights dimming slightly as images flash across massive screens: smiling children, renovated buildings, clean water projects, carefully selected narratives of benevolence.
The room watches with respectful attention.
In the dark, his palm settles deliberately on my thigh beneath the edge of the tablecloth.
Not near my knee. Not accidental, but possessive and claiming.
From the outside, nothing changes. His posture remains elegant.
His expression composed. Anyone watching would see only a man preparing to escort his fiancée to the dance floor.
My pulse spikes, not with embarrassment, but with something colder. I simply shift my leg, smooth and controlled, adjusting the fall of my dress as though repositioning the fabric. His hand slides off naturally, forced by movement he cannot challenge without exposing what he was doing.
When the lights rise again, the host announces the dance portion of the evening. The orchestra transitions seamlessly into something slower, more fluid. Couples begin to rise from their tables, gowns gliding across polished floors, tuxedos cutting clean lines beneath chandeliers.
He leans closer, voice low enough that only I hear. “You will not humiliate me,” he says evenly.
From across the ballroom, I can feel Riot’s attention sharpen.
And when I finally look at Konstantin, my expression is calm.
“May I have this dance?” Konstantin asks, already rising, already certain of the answer.
Refusing him here would be a declaration before I am ready to make it.
So I stand. His hand settles at my lower back as he guides me toward the dance floor, the contact firm enough to steer, light enough to look courteous.
Cameras flash as we step into the open space beneath the chandeliers, other couples already moving in slow, polished circles.
I feel eyes on us, investors, rivals, family, and one set in particular.
As Konstantin turns me into position, his hand sliding to my waist, I look past his shoulder and find Riot staring.
Not casually. Not politely. Hard. His posture has shifted, shoulders squared and jaw set, the loose ease gone from him entirely.
He does not interrupt. He does not move.
He just watches.Konstantin draws me closer than necessary, one hand clasping mine, the other firm at my back.
The orchestra swells around us, strings smooth and elegant, the room spinning in measured rhythm.
I let my face soften into something graceful.
Controlled. A version of affection that photographs well.
From the outside, we look perfect. From the inside, I feel every place his hand touches like it leaves a mark.
The pressure at my waist. The brush of his fingers against my spine.
The way he pulls me a fraction too close when we turn.
“You are making this harder than it needs to be,” he murmurs near my ear.
We glide past another couple, applause breaking out at the edge of the floor as more guests join. I allow my fingers to rest lightly in his, chin lifted, expression serene. Inside, I am counting the beats until the song ends.
When we turn again, I meet Riot’s gaze across the room.
He is still watching. And if Konstantin feels the difference between a woman who belongs to him and a woman who refuses to bend, he does not show it.
But I do. In the small, deliberate space I keep between us, even as we dance.
We turn slowly beneath the chandeliers, cameras still flashing at the edge of the floor, donors smiling as if they are watching something romantic instead of strategic.
Konstantin’s hand rests at my waist, firm, guiding.
My fingers remain light in his, careful not to grip more than necessary.
“So,” he murmurs, voice smooth enough to pass for affectionate, “what shall it be?” I hold his gaze, expression composed.
“A spring wedding,” he continues, rotating us through another measured step, “or summer?”
The question is delivered softly, but there is steel beneath it. He isn’t asking, he is testing whether I will play along.
I let a small smile touch my lips for anyone watching. The kind meant for cameras. “Is that how this works?” I ask lightly. “You choose the season and I provide the dress?”
His jaw flexes almost imperceptibly. “We will announce it tonight,” he says. “A date. A direction. It reassures people.”
“People,” I echo.
“Our investors,” he clarifies. “Our allies.”
“You mean your pride.”
His hand tightens slightly at my waist as we turn again. “You are enjoying this,” he says quietly.
“I am enduring it,” I reply.
He leans closer, breath brushing my temple. “You will not embarrass me in front of them.”
“And you will not dictate my life in front of them.”
Another turn. Applause somewhere behind us as another couple joins the floor.
“Spring,” he presses. “It gives us time to formalize contracts.”
“There are no contracts,” I say softly.
“There are always contracts.”
I let my gaze drift briefly past his shoulder.
Riot hasn’t moved, he stands at the edge of the floor now, no longer seated, watching us with an intensity that makes my pulse steady instead of spike. Konstantin follows my line of sight and then looks back at me. “You see?” he murmurs. “This is precisely why clarity is required.”
“Clarity?” I ask.
“Yes. So there is no confusion about where you belong.”
The music slows into its final refrain. I meet his eyes fully now, letting the smile fall away just enough for him to see the truth beneath it. “I do not belong to a season,” I say quietly. “And I do not belong to you.”
The song ends and applause rises. I step back before he can pull me closer again.
The music swells into applause as the dance ends, but Konstantin does not release me.
His fingers tighten around my arm. “Excuse us,” he says smoothly to no one in particular, already steering me off the floor.
His grip is firm enough that I have to match his pace to avoid stumbling.
To anyone watching, it looks urgent. Intimate.
A couple in need of privacy. He does not stop until we reach a shadowed alcove just beyond the main ballroom, half-hidden by a marble column and heavy velvet drapery. The music is still audible, but muted.
The second we are out of sight lines, his composure fractures. “Drop the fucking act,” he snaps in hushed, furious tones.
I pull my arm free. “What act?” I ask evenly.
He steps closer. “The defiance. The glances. The silent provocations.”
“I am not provoking you.”
“You are undermining me.” He rakes a hand through his hair, the prince slipping, the demon stepping forward.
“We are getting married in March,” he says flatly.
“It will be announced tonight. You will stand beside me and smile. You will be the perfect bride. You will do exactly what you were raised to do.”
“No.” The word lands between us.
His eyes flash. “You do not get to say no.”
“I just did.”
His jaw tightens, and in one sharp motion he backs me against the wall.
Marble presses cold against my spine. His hand slams against the wall beside my face.
“You will marry me,” he says, voice low and shaking with contained fury.
“The alliance will be forged.” I hold his gaze. “Or I will kill your father.”
For half a second, there is silence. Then I laugh. It slips out before I can stop it. “You really think you could get to him?” I ask.
His face darkens. He leans in close, so close I can feel the heat of his breath against my skin. “I got to you,” he murmurs.