Chastity #2
My fingers tightened around the champagne flute I'd been carrying but not drinking. The crystal grew slick under my palm.
"I think I'm better suited to the boardroom."
"Boardroom's loss." The dark-haired one stepped closer, closing the distance I'd unconsciously tried to maintain. "You a hockey fan?"
"My father is."
"That's not what I asked."
Something in his tone—playful but insistent—made my chest tighten. It sounded presumptuous. Like my answer didn't matter as much as the conversation itself. Like I existed as entertainment, decoration, a story they'd tell in the locker room tomorrow.
Harrington's daughter? Yeah, talked to her at the masquerade. Stunning.
I smiled anyway. Polished. Pleasant. "I appreciate the sport."
The blond one laughed. "That's what people say when they don't understand icing."
"Or offside," the other added.
They were charming. Objectively. The kind of effortless confidence that came from being young and talented and accustomed to doors opening before they knocked.
But their eyes kept drifting. Down. Back up. Lingering.
I felt studied. Catalogued. Reduced to the dress and the mask and the last name.
"We should get drinks sometime," the dark-haired one said. "Show you what Detroit nightlife actually looks like."
My mouth opened—some deflection forming—but a hand settled on my shoulder before I could speak.
Dad's voice cut through the space between us like a blade wrapped in velvet. "Gentlemen."
Both players straightened immediately. The casual lean evaporated. Shoulders squared.
"Mr. Harrington." The blond one's grin turned respectful. Deferential. "Great event."
"Appreciate you both coming." Dad's hand remained on my shoulder—warm, proprietary, unmistakable. "I trust you're enjoying yourselves?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good." His smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "The silent auction closes in twenty minutes. I'm sure you'll want to get your bids in."
It wasn't a suggestion.
The dark-haired player nodded, already backing away. "Right. Yeah. Good to meet you, Miss Harrington."
They dissolved into the crowd.
Dad's hand stayed fixed on my shoulder for another beat before releasing. When I glanced up, his expression had softened into something almost apologetic.
"You okay?"
"Fine." I smoothed my dress. "They were just being friendly."
"They were being twenty-three." His tone carried dry amusement, but beneath it ran something harder. Protective. "You don't have to tolerate that."
I watched the players disappear toward the auction tables, their laughter audible even across the ballroom. The way they'd shifted when Dad appeared—instant deference, automatic respect—settled in my chest like a stone. Power. Real power. The kind that didn't need to be loud.
"I handled it," I said quietly.
Dad's hand found the small of my back again, steering me toward the gallery wing. "I know you did."
The noise pressed against my temples—laughter layering over string quartet melodies, champagne flutes clinking, heels striking marble in rhythms that never quite synchronized. Perfume hung thick in the air, a dozen competing fragrances that blurred together into something cloying and artificial.
I'd barely eaten anything all day.
Nerves had killed my appetite that morning. The fitting with Mom. Dad's reminders about posture, about handshakes, about how I needed to represent. By the time we'd left for the gala, my stomach had twisted itself into something too tight for food.
But now, standing in the thick of it—cameras flashing near the silent auction, investors studying me like a prospectus they hadn't decided to approve—hunger hit with unexpected force.
I slipped away while Dad engaged a cluster of donors near the staircase.
The dessert table occupied a corner of the gallery wing, slightly removed from the main flow of traffic. White linen draped to the floor. Silver platters arranged with geometric precision.
Chocolate-covered strawberries glistened under soft lighting. Mini truffles dusted with cocoa powder formed perfect pyramids. Dark chocolate squares stamped with the Serpents logo sat in neat rows.
My hand reached for one strawberry.
Then another.
Then a truffle.
I glanced around—no one watching—and grabbed two more strawberries, cradling them in my palm like contraband.
A laugh bubbled up before I could stop it. If I'm going to represent the family, I deserve sugar.
The first strawberry burst sweet and tart against my tongue, chocolate melting instantly. I closed my eyes, letting the noise recede for just a moment.
This. This small indulgence.
Human.
Real.
Not performance. Not optics. Not the carefully calibrated version of myself I'd been projecting since we'd walked through those gates.
Just me, stealing chocolate in a corner, relieved no one was asking questions or measuring my worth in thirty-second intervals.
I bit into another strawberry and felt my shoulders drop an inch.
The relief lasted exactly as long as it took for footsteps to approach from behind. Close enough that I heard the slight scuff of expensive shoes against marble.
The glass doors gave under my palms, cool and smooth, and I pushed through into something quieter.
Night air hit my face—sharp, clean, nothing like the perfumed heat I'd left behind. I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with winter.
The hedge garden stretched before me in geometric precision.
Box hedges carved the space into corridors and alcoves, their dark leaves dusted with yesterday's snow that hadn't quite melted.
Lanterns hung at intervals along the paths, their flames flickering behind glass, casting amber pools across white stone.
Behind me, the ballroom's noise became something distant. Muffled. A murmur instead of a roar.
I exhaled slowly, watching my breath fog. Finally. Alone.
My heels clicked against flagstone as I crossed to the nearest balustrade. Stone, waist-high, cold even through my gloves when I leaned against it. The gardens dropped away below—terraced beds sleeping under winter, fountains drained for the season, paths disappearing into shadow.
I pulled another chocolate from my palm and slipped it between my lips.
The sweetness bloomed instantly. Rich. Dark. Perfect.
My shoulders dropped another inch. This. This moment of stolen privacy where no one needed anything from me, where I wasn't being introduced or evaluated or—
"Most people stick to champagne. You went straight for chocolate."
I froze mid-chew.
The voice came from somewhere behind me. Low. Dry. Threaded with amusement that felt deliberate rather than spontaneous.
My pulse kicked against my throat as I turned slowly.
A man stood near the glass doors I'd just exited, half-shadowed by the hedge wall.
Black mask. Tailored tuxedo that fit like it had been made specifically for those shoulders.
Hands loose at his sides. He didn't lean casually against the doorframe or hedge like someone who'd wandered out for air.
He stood like he'd chosen this exact position.
This exact moment. Like he owned the space.
I couldn't see his face fully—the mask concealed too much, and the lantern light carved shadows where features should be. I noticed… scars. Hidden, but there.
But I felt his gaze fixed directly on me.
I swallowed the chocolate, suddenly too aware of the sweetness coating my tongue. "I like chocolate."
The words came out steadier than I felt.
He stepped closer—not rushed, not aggressive, just... forward. Into clearer light. "I can tell."
Something in the way he said it made heat crawl up my neck. Not crude. Not obvious. Just observant enough to feel invasive.
I straightened, fingers tightening on the balustrade behind me. His voice tugged at something familiar in my memory, but I couldn't place it. The mask obscured too much. The shadows did the rest.
Investor, maybe. One of the players I hadn't met yet. A donor important enough that Dad would expect me to recognize him.
Someone I should know.