Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
The main chandelier in the ballroom of the old Bellamy mansion contains exactly one hundred and thirty-seven crystals.
I know this because I’ve counted them twice while waiting for Mal to return with drinks, and I’m seriously considering a third count just to give my hands something to do besides fidget with the hem of my dress.
The red dress.
Bianca was right—it does look good. The silk hugs my body like it was made for it, and the open back draws exactly the kind of attention I’d normally hate but tonight find strangely satisfying. Or I would, if I could stop counting crystals.
“You’re going to wear a hole in that fabric.”
I drop my hem and turn to find Mal approaching with two champagne flutes, looking like he’s just stepped off a red carpet.
His tuxedo is clearly bespoke—fitted perfectly to his broad shoulders, the crisp white of his shirt a stark contrast to his dark hair and darker eyes.
The only hint of color is a red pocket square that matches my dress exactly.
“Did you coordinate on purpose?” I ask, accepting one of the glasses.
“Nix may have done some reconnaissance.” He clinks his flute against mine. “You look stunning, by the way.”
“You’ve said that three times.”
“It bears repeating.” His eyes travel down my body with an appreciation that makes my skin flush. “Red is definitely your color.”
“Stop.”
“Never.”
Across the ballroom, a string quartet is playing something classical and inoffensive while Bellamy Cove’s finest mill about in their formal wear.
I spot Mrs. Patterson near the silent auction table, her Pomeranian presumably left at home.
Rita Jenkins is holding court by the champagne fountain, and I can see Mayor Hammond pressing flesh near the main entrance.
Everyone who’s anyone in Bellamy Cove is here. Which means everyone who’s anyone in Bellamy Cove is watching us.
“Izzie!” Bianca appears out of nowhere, stunning in emerald green. “You came! And you brought—oh my God, look at you two.”
“Bianca—”
“You match.” She’s practically vibrating. “You’re matching. This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“We’re not—”
“You’re completely adorable,” Bianca continues, apparently addressing Mal now. “Isn’t she adorable? She’s been pretending you’re just dance partners for weeks and now look at you.”
“I think she’s magnificent,” he says calmly.
Bianca clutches her chest. “I’m going to die. Right here. Heart failure from witnessing perfect romance.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being accurate.” She grabs my arm and leans in close, her voice dropping. “Also, half the town is staring at you, so you might want to prepare yourself for interrogations.”
“Wonderful,” I mutter.
“Embrace it.” Bianca pats my shoulder. “You’ve got a hot date. Own it.”
She disappears back into the crowd before I can respond.
Mal is watching me with that amused expression I’ve come to recognize—the one that says he finds my discomfort entertaining but in an affectionate way rather than a cruel one.
“So,” he says. “Shall we mingle?”
“Do we have to?”
“You’re a sponsor. I believe it’s expected.”
He’s right, of course. The whole point of attending these events is networking and building community relationships, maintaining the studio’s reputation as a pillar of Bellamy Cove’s cultural scene. It’s just that doing it with Mal at my side feels different somehow. More exposed. More real.
“Fine.” I drain my champagne in one long swallow. “But you’re doing most of the talking.”
His smile is wolf-like. “I can do that.”
The first hour passes in a blur of handshakes and small talk.
Mal is, unsurprisingly, excellent at this. He navigates the crowd with an easy charm that has people leaning in, laughing, touching his arm like they can’t help themselves. He remembers names. He asks follow-up questions. He compliments people in ways that feel genuine rather than calculated.
And every time someone asks who he is, he says the same thing:
“I’m Isadora’s date.”
Not partner. Not friend. Not dance instructor. Date. The word shouldn’t make my stomach flip every time I hear it, but it does.
“—and of course, you’ll have to come to dinner soon,” Mrs. Whitmore is saying. She’s the president of the Women’s Business Association and has been monopolizing us for the past ten minutes. “I’d love to hear more about your work, Malachi.”
“I’d be delighted,” Mal says smoothly. “Though I should warn you, my schedule is quite full these days. Isadora keeps me very busy.”
Mrs. Whitmore’s eyebrows rise meaningfully. “I’m sure she does.”
I feel my face heat. “Dance rehearsals,” I clarify quickly. “For the showcase.”
“Of course, dear.” Her smile is knowing. “Just dance rehearsals.”
She finally moves on, and I let out a relieved sigh.
“That was—”
“Charming?” Mal offers.
“I was going to say ‘mortifying.’“
“Tomato, tomahto.”
A waiter passes with a tray of canapés. Mal snags two, handing one to me.
“Eat,” he says. “You’re tense.”
“I’m not—”
“You’ve been white-knuckling that champagne flute for the past twenty minutes. Eat.”
I take the canapé. It’s some kind of smoked salmon thing on a tiny piece of toast that tastes expensive.
“Better?” he asks.
“Marginally.”
“Progress.” His hand finds the small of my back—the part left bare by my dress—and his fingers are hot against my skin. “Would you like to see something interesting?”
“Define ‘interesting.’“
“Come with me.”
He guides me through the crowd, past the silent auction tables and the champagne fountain, toward the far side of the ballroom where floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the gardens.
The view is spectacular with fairy lights strung through the old oak trees and stone pathways gleaming in the moonlight.
But that’s not what he’s showing me.
“Look at the windows,” he murmurs, close to my ear. “Not through them. At them.”
I frown but do as he says. The windows are tall, multi-paned, reflecting the light of the chandeliers and the movement of the crowd. Nothing unusual.
Then I see it.
One of the reflections is wrong. It’s subtle—so subtle I almost miss it. But near the edge of the window, where a group of guests is clustered around Mayor Hammond, one of the figures doesn’t quite match. The reflection is too tall. Too thin. Its movements are a half-second behind everyone else’s.
I blink. The wrongness disappears.
“What—”
“Fae,” Mal says quietly. “Lower courts, by the look of them. They like to attend human gatherings. Social observation.”
I stare at him. “Fae.”
“Mmm.” He takes a sip of his champagne, utterly casual. “They’re harmless. Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“Don’t make direct eye contact with any reflections that smile at you. Other than that, you’re fine.”
I turn back to the window. Now that I know what to look for, I can see other wrongnesses.
A shadow that moves against the light. A figure that’s too still among the swirling crowd.
A pair of eyes that flash silver for just a moment before returning to normal.
How long has this been happening? How much have I missed?
“You’re opening my eyes,” I say slowly. “Aren’t you? On purpose.”
His expression is unreadable. “You were always capable of seeing. You just weren’t looking.”
“Why now?”
“Because you asked.” His hand is still on my back, anchoring me. “And because you deserve to know what you’re getting into.”
“Getting into with what? With you?”
“With all of it.” He gestures vaguely at the ballroom—at the glittering crowd and the too-tall reflections and the world I’m only now beginning to see. “This is Bellamy Cove, Isadora. It’s been supernatural for longer than it’s been human. The monsters just learned to hide better.”
I should be afraid. I should be questioning everything I thought I knew about my life and my town and the man standing next to me. Instead, I feel something else entirely. Relief.
Because suddenly, so many things make sense. The way Nix appeared out of nowhere. The strange lights I’ve seen in the studio mirrors. The feeling I’ve had for years that something in Bellamy Cove was just slightly off, like a picture hung a degree crooked.
I wasn’t imagining it. I wasn’t crazy.
I was just finally seeing the truth.
“Show me more,” I hear myself say.
Mal’s eyes flash with something that might be pride. “Later. Right now, I believe you owe me a dance.”
The string quartet has shifted to an old-fashioned waltz, the kind of music that makes you want to sway in someone’s arms. Mal leads me to the dance floor with a hand on my waist, and I’m acutely aware of every eye in the room turning to follow us.
Isadora and her mysterious date. The couple everyone’s been gossiping about for weeks.
Let them look, I think, surprising myself. Let them see.
“Ready?” Mal asks, his hand on my waist.
“Always.”
We begin to move.
It’s different here, in public, than it is in the studio. There’s an awareness of being watched, of being judged, that adds a layer of performance to every step. But underneath that, the connection between us is the same—that wordless communication, that sense of moving as one body.
His hand is warm and steady at my waist. My fingers curl around his shoulder. We’re closer than we need to be, closer than the dance requires, and I can feel his breath on my temple.
“People are staring,” I murmur.
“Let them.”
“They’re going to talk.”
“They’re already talking.” He spins me out, then pulls me back in, catching me against his chest. “Might as well give them something worth discussing.”
The music swells. We move through the crowd like water, weaving between other couples, and I realize with a start that we’re drawing attention not just because of the gossip but because we’re good. Really good. Weeks of practice have turned us into something seamless, something beautiful.
“You’ve improved,” I say.
“High praise from the perfectionist.” His lips brush my ear. “I had an excellent teacher.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere.”
“That’s a lie and we both know it.”
He dips me—low, theatrical, the kind of move that shouldn’t work at a charity gala but somehow does. I’m suspended for a moment, looking up at the one hundred and thirty-seven crystals in the chandelier before he pulls me upright and back into his arms.
“Show-off,” I breathe.
“You love it.”
The problem is, I do.
I love the way he moves, confident and precise. I love the way he holds me, like I’m something precious. I love the way he looks at me—like there’s no one else in the room, like the whole world has narrowed to the space between us.
This is dangerous, some part of me whispers. This is how you get hurt.
But the rest of me doesn’t care.
The music shifts into something slower and more intimate. The other couples on the floor drift closer together, and Mal adjusts our hold to match—his arm wrapping more fully around my waist, my head resting against his shoulder.
“Isadora,” he says softly.
“Hmm?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For this. For asking me. For—” He pauses, and I feel his chest expand with a deep breath. “For trusting me even when I haven’t given you any reason to.”
I pull back enough to look at his face. In the warm glow of the chandeliers, he looks almost normal—just a man at a party with his date, enjoying a dance. Almost.
“You’re going to tell me everything,” I say. “You promised.”
“I know.”
“Tonight.”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
His hand tightens on my waist. “And then you’ll decide if you want to keep dancing with me.”
Something in his voice makes my chest ache—that vulnerability again, peeking through the cracks of his charm. He’s afraid, I realize. Afraid of what I’ll think. Afraid of what I’ll do.
Afraid I’ll leave.
“Mal.” I wait until his eyes meet mine. “Whatever you tell me, it’s not going to change the fact that I asked you here tonight.”
“You don’t know what I’m going to tell you.”
“No. But I know who you’ve shown me.” I reach up, tracing my fingers along his jaw. “That’s the part that matters.”
He stares at me for a long moment. Then something in his expression shifts and softens.
“You’re remarkable,” he says. “Do you know that?”
“I’m practical.”
“Remarkably practical.” He turns his head, pressing a kiss to my palm. “And far too good for the likes of me.”
“Probably.”
He laughs, low and warm. The music is winding down. Around us, couples are separating, drifting toward the edges of the floor. But neither of us moves.
“One more dance,” he says. “Before we face reality.”
“The quartet might not—”
“They will.”
He lifts his hand slightly, a subtle gesture, and the music swells again. The same melody, repeated, as if the quartet never intended to stop. I don’t ask how he did it. Instead, I settle back into his arms, let him lead me through another waltz, and try to memorize every detail of this moment.
The warmth of his hand on my bare back.
The rhythm of his heartbeat against my cheek.
The way the chandelier scatters light across the floor like fallen stars.
Whatever comes next—whatever truth he’s about to tell me—I want to remember this. I want to remember what it felt like before everything changed.