Chapter Thirty Five
The irony of Waversea Academy hosting a fundraising gala while half its donors are bleeding it dry is not lost on me. If anything, it feels poetic.
The main hall has been transformed beyond recognition, crystal chandeliers lowered from vaulted ceilings, their light fractured through finely cut glass and reflecting against the polished floors.
White drapery cascades down the walls like something out of a high-society wedding, threaded with fairy lights that give the room a subtle ambience.
Long banquet tables line the perimeter, dressed in pristinely white linen.
Flutes of champagne wind past the guests as waitstaff glide through the crowd with rehearsed smiles.
Confronted by the display, flashbacks to every gala I’ve attended growing up are called forward from wherever they were lurking.
This is the Waversea signature style, as beautiful as it is dangerous.
More guests, mostly students, line the courtyard, waving their invitations in desperation to be let in.
Striding past them all, I arrive at the front with Harper on my arm and Clayton on her other side.
“Invitation?” a security guard asks without looking up from his clipboard.
I wait with a raised brow, anticipating the moment he clocks me.
“Oh, Master Waversea. Forgive me.” Unhooking the red rope, the guard permits our entry, much to the chagrin of those left out in the cold.
They’ll be allowed in soon after my supposed father has posed for photos and networked with those he deemed worthy VIPs.
The moment we step through the entrance, the room hesitates.
A collective intake of breath can be felt rather than heard, the kind that happens before the break of a new scandal.
Then the cameras start. Paparazzi pounce from where they were previously tucked behind decorative columns and velvet ropes, lifting their lenses in unison.
Flashes erupt, rapid and merciless, white light burning into my retinas. I feel Harper stiffen beside me, feel Clayton’s hand bump my hip from where it curls around her back. In the same spirit, I wind my arm around her shoulders, pinning her between us.
“Smile, sweetheart. You look stunning,” I say into the mic clip nestled in the sharp collar of my shirt. Harper doesn’t relax her posture, but her mouth curves in my peripheral vision. I take note of the company name on the paparazzi’s lanyard, knowing I’ll need a copy of this photo.
Harper truly is stunning, devastating in the elegant, backless gown that skims her curves as if it were tailored to her shape. The shimmering black fabric catches light every time she moves, her hair pinned up to expose the delicate line of her neck.
Surprisingly, Clayton has cleaned up well too.
It’s amazing what a little money can do.
Instead of his only shirts being flannel and threadbare, he’s standing tall in a fine suit, a dark shirt open at his throat.
For once, his shoulder-length blond hair is neatly brushed back, his black eyes alert as ever.
And me? I decided that I was going about this evening all wrong.
The best way to irritate Arthur is to be the epitome of everything he hates most. Unbroken, unashamed, and present.
Hence, I’ve binned the tie. My shirt is rolled up to the elbows and unbuttoned dangerously low, my tattoos gleaming against my skin.
I slide a hand into my slacks pocket, wearing my mask of composure like armor.
Whispers ripple outward as we move further into the room, a few catching my ears beneath the soft blend of modern and classical music.
“That’s the Waversea heir.”
“Is she with both of them?”
“I heard she ran off with a sugar daddy.”
I keep my arm locked around Harper’s shoulders, guiding her through the gossip I hope she can’t hear.
It’s all old news anyway, which is surprising.
I thought Arthur would have publicly disinherited me by now.
Clayton stays with us, mirroring each step until we have placed ourselves in the middle of the dancefloor.
The orchestra swells near the stage, strings cutting into a leisurely, luxurious waltz.
Harper shifts uneasily, her eyes darting up to me for direction.
The smirk on my face spreads wider, a decision rooting itself in my head.
“Would you mind grabbing us a table and some drinks?” I ask Clayton.
With a simple nod, he strides away, removing an entire tray of champagne from a waitress’ hand and putting it down on a table with a group of women present.
I’m definitely a bad influence on him. At his intrusion, the women stand and leave, all except for a busty blonde who takes a champagne flute for herself.
Klara tips the glass towards Clayton, sipping as he sits beside her.
Something uneasy stirs within me, but it doesn’t matter as I’m having a hard time taking my eyes off Harper’s. Beneath the chandelier, they glisten like the finest emeralds, and a small smile pulls at the corners of her mouth.
“That was extremely civil of you,” Harper comments as I drag her into my body.
Extending her arm to take my hand, the other settles low on her back.
“Dare I say, your friendship with Clay is growing beyond sexual blackmail.” I snort, fully aware there’s an undercover police van down the road listening to this entire exchange.
“Well, I thought you’d slap me if I told him to fuck off.” With gentle guidance, I ease Harper into a simple one, two, three step, spinning us in light circles.
“And here I was, thinking you liked it when I slapped you.” A barely audible groan escapes me, my tongue playing with my lip scar.
“Babygirl, if you get me hard on this dancefloor, you’ll regret it.
Save the dirty talk for later.” Winking, I tilt my head to inhale the perfume on her neck, deliberately guiding her through the motions closer than what would be deemed respectful.
My palm borders on her ass, my thighs often slipping between hers to direct her steps.
It’s more of a dirty blues than a waltz, but I impress myself by keeping in count.
Harper huffs a silent laugh, the vibration of it traveling straight into my chest as I feel her relax into the rhythm.
Lifting my arm to spin her for Clayton to appreciate and everyone else to envy, I exaggerate the third count just enough to dip her slightly.
The slit in her dress flares, revealing a creamy thigh.
Instinctively, Harper’s grip tightens on my shoulder, her eyes widening for half a second before she catches on.
Lifting a brow as if to reprimand me, that does nothing to hide how much she’s enjoying herself.
I lean down, my mouth brushing the shell of her ear, careful not to disturb the mic at my throat.
“Trust me,” I murmur, more for reassurance than a command. She does instantly. Harper’s body follows mine like it always has, attentive and responsive, her feet finding the pattern even when I change it up.
Spinning her out and reeling her back in, her hand slides along the veins of my forearm much like it does to the piercings of my cock.
I try to shake the image from my head, reminding myself that I’m supposed to be focusing, but it’s useless.
When Harper’s touching me, when she’s staring at me like I’m her whole, there’s no way I can concentrate.
The chandelier light catches in her hair as she turns, the image of her curls shifting through my inked fingers all too real.
The room around us blurs, the faces, money and power fading out.
The next time Harper spins into me, I instinctively reach for her throat, my palm trailing the space between her collarbone and her breast. She catches my wrist at the last moment, shakes her head with a spark of mischief lighting her eyes.
“You’re showing off,” she accuses, the words lost to the music but unmistakable on her lips. I shrug unapologetically, guiding her through another turn that brings her flush against me again.
“If you could see what I’m seeing, you’d want to show off too.
You’re exquisite.” My hand returns to her lower back, tracing a small circle against her spine with my thumb.
Around us, the murmurs swell, curiosity sharpening as the cameras continue to flash, but Harper doesn’t shy away anymore.
She lifts her chin, matching my smirk with one of her own.
“Let’s have a drink before the real party begins,” Harper quietly demands.
I read the intent behind her stare. We’re here to do a job.
Nodding, I follow her to the table where Clayton waits, ignoring the smartphones all angled in our direction.
Most of the students who were waiting outside have been permitted entry now, and the hall is filled with bodies.
At the edge of my vision, Arthur moves through the crowd, shaking hands with those he chooses and ignoring everyone else.
I settle into a chair, a flute between my fingers as a flash of pink passes the other side of the dancefloor.
Addy heads directly towards Arthur, and my grip around the glass tightens.
At the last moment, she realises her mistake and darts left, hiding her face behind a paper fan.
I huff out a breath, thankfully Addy doesn’t have her own plan this evening.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” a quiet voice asks, the question not directed at me.
Harper has taken the chair behind me, putting her beside Klara, who is already on her third champagne.
She doesn’t look at me, her eyes downcast towards the glittering blue dress wrapped around her body like a second skin. Harper smiles delicately and nods.
“We did, thank you for your help.”