Chapter 25 Cybil
Cybil
Dallas, Texas
Saturday night
If this is how I look at chocolate, I owe the cocoa bean an apology.
Milosh—with a Russian last name I didn’t quite catch the first time—has been staring at me like I’m tonight’s main course.
Or maybe the way I stare at a tray of freshly made brownies.
Again, my apologies, chocolate.
I’m pretty sure it wasn’t my amazing personality that had him ogling me in a way that had my skin crawling. His eyes didn’t
just wander—they lingered, practically tracing every inch of me.
Yeah, I’ll never look at chocolate the same way again.
I’m pretty sure I’m using chocolate to keep me emotionally disengaged or from being icked out so that I can do what I need
to do tonight—get the names of investors involved in Ramirez’s deal. Athena made it crystal clear that something big and dangerous
will be going down. I have to finish this job no matter how many uncomfortable moments it brings.
From the moment I arrived at the steak house, my focus was to mingle with as many people as possible and collect names. So
far I have three. And a half.
“Milosh, is that a family name?”
“It mean . . . beloved.” His breath is all vodka. “Very, how you say . . . caring.”
His icy blue eyes are predatory as they follow me, like he knows exactly what I’m up to, that I’m fishing for information.
The discomfort in my chest grows, warning me it’s time to move on to my next target.
I glance around the restaurant. The air smells like seared meat, truffle butter, and expensive cologne, but beneath that there’s
a quiet tension. Everyone is here for a reason, invited by the man holding court at the back table. Ramirez.
The jazz band isn’t playing loud and brassy music, but the slow, smooth kind that makes you think of deals being made in whispers.
A few couples sway on the dance floor, but one pair catches my attention. They’re maybe in their late fifties or early sixties—around
the age of my aunt and uncle—elegant, polished, moving in the kind of rhythm that reveals years of practice. They look like
the kind of couple who hosts backyard barbecues, coaches their kids’ sports, and gives practical anniversary gifts. So how
did they end up in this viper’s den of criminals? Are they here to invest in whatever the Aurelite-X deal is? Do they know
what it is? Or why Athena is worried about it?
Maybe they don’t know.
I think back to my mom and how naive she’d been to trust Celeste Harlow. Celeste sold her this great story of increasing my
father’s settlement so that we would be taken care of for the rest of our lives—no worries. Did Ramirez target this couple
for their wealth? What lies has he fed them?
I’m ready to excuse myself to go meet them when Ben is suddenly standing in front me in a suit that fits him so perfectly,
I momentarily forget to breathe.
“Cybil, I don’t think I’ve met your friend.”
Ben’s words are directed at me, but it’s clear from the way his sharp gaze is locked onto Milosh that he’s not just making small talk.
There’s something in his expression, something dangerous simmering beneath the surface, that instantly puts me on edge.
I don’t think it’s jealousy—after all, Milosh is at least thirty years older than me—but there’s definitely tension between the two men that makes my skin prickle.
A full breath finally fills my lungs, along with relief. Ben doesn’t even know he’s just helped me. “This is Milosh . . .”
I press my lips together, looking embarrassed. “I’m so sorry, I don’t remember your last name.”
“Kamarov,” Milosh responds, barely giving Ben a passing glance. “You are?”
“Craig.” Ben extends his hand, but his gaze slides to me for a fraction of a second, and I swear I see a small smirk tugging
at the corner of his mouth. “Craig Miller.”
Milosh ignores Ben’s offered handshake as though it’s beneath him, but Ben remains unbothered, hands slipping casually into
his pockets before he turns his full attention to me.
“Do you have a minute?”
“Actually, I was about to—”
“Dance,” Ben interrupts smoothly, his voice low and commanding. Before I can react, he reaches for my hand, his fingers warm
against my cool skin, his gaze never leaving mine. And unlike the repulsion I felt with Milosh, my body gravitates to him.
But I don’t have time to dance. I try to pull my hand back, but he’s already got a firm grip. Then he winks at someone behind
me.
“Right, Mr. Edmond?”
Mr. Edmond, who has been in a separate conversation nearby, steps forward with a smile. “I think I’m going to have to agree
with Craig. There’s always time for a dance.”
Not when I need to get names in a room full of criminals.
Mr. Edmond holds my gaze, leaning in. “Besides, I’d like to chat with Mr. Kamarov.”
My senses perk at this. I glance at Kamarov, and he’s watching the exchange with an interest that removes any chance to reject
Ben’s offer. I don’t know how Mr. Edmond knows Kamarov, but their conversation could be crucial to Athena. I have no choice
but to let it happen, hoping I can find out what it’s about later.
“Fine.”
Ben’s lips tip up, and I see way too much satisfaction in his blue eyes. He thinks he’s won, but he hasn’t seen my dance moves
yet.
I let him lead me to the dance floor as the band picks a peppier number, drawing more couples in. He tugs me against his chest,
his smile vanishing the second my heel finds his foot.
He winces but recovers, attempting to glide me across the floor. I yank hard to the right, sending his shoulder straight into
another couple. Ben apologizes, then tightens his grip, challenge flashing in his eyes.
“I took you for a better dancer, Billy.” He spins me out and pulls me back in hard enough I crash into his chest, sending
a rush of heat through me that has nothing to do with the dance.
I will not romanticize this—no matter how much my heart wants to.
“Your mistake, Craig.” I stomp on his toe again, satisfied when his jaw twitches and his eyes water. “We don’t make good partners.”
Ben raises a brow, and my traitorous heart flutters like a communist sympathizer.
“You don’t think so?” His hand settles firmly against the small of my back, guiding me with smooth, deliberate steps. We move
in perfect sync—too perfect—twisting and turning as the room blurs around us. His eyes never leave mine, and after a few more
spins, I can’t help it. I laugh. Deep, soul-renewing laughter that I haven’t experienced since . . . the last time I was with
Ben. He smiles back appreciatively, like I just gave him a gift, and there’s an undeniable and unexpected spark—a mix of comfort
and something fragile—that makes my heart beat a little faster.
He spins me again, and for a moment, it’s like we were made for this, like that older couple with years of practice, and suddenly
all the emotions I buried years ago come rushing back with a single, undeniable thought—I’m still in love with him.
Gazing into his blue eyes, I see the boy who made me feel safe. Wanted. Worthy. And now he’s here, making me feel all of it again.
The music slows, but Ben doesn’t let go. His fingers skim my waist as we sway, his eyes searching mine like he’s fighting a war I don’t understand.
“What are you doing talking to Milosh Kamarov?”
The question snaps me out of my Ben-trance, and just like that, I’m reminded of the dangerous game Ben might be playing. My
chest tightens, and the warmth that lingered between us evaporates in an instant. This isn’t a fairy tale. Ben is involved
in something I barely understand, something dark and risky, something that has Athena worried, and I have to remind myself
why I’m here—why I can’t afford to get too close. Ben knows exactly how to use his charm to disarm me, and I can’t let that
happen. But if he’s playing me, I’ll play him right back. It takes two to tango.
I raise a brow. “You dragged me to the dance floor to ask me about my conversation?”
He grins. “It works for James Bond.”
“You’re not James Bond.”
“Come on.” Ben tilts his head. “I’m kind of like James Bond.” He twirls me out and reels me back in, our bodies colliding. I scowl at how annoyingly good he smells.
“I got you safely out of the spilled cappuccino debacle, then rescued you from the dangerous fruit cart, and let’s not forget
the cat that nearly got you killed on the ledge. All very Bond-like, if you ask me.”
I roll my eyes at him. “Newsflash, 007—I don’t need rescuing. Not from coffee, produce, or a charming billionaire.”
Ben’s eyes widen. “You find him charming?”
Not even a little bit, but you don’t get to know that. “Jealous?”
“Maybe.” His answer catches me off guard. “He doesn’t seem your type.”
I scoff. “And you know my type?”
Why am I letting him get to me?
“It’s not Russian oligarch.” His gaze smolders. “Or an Italian in a wolf-man mask.”
So that was jealousy I saw on his face. “I don’t know. Did you see his clavicles?”
Ben’s jaw muscle tics, eyes narrowing. “No, can’t say I noticed his collarbones.”
“Your loss. They were amazing,” I purr, thoroughly enjoying the turmoil I see brewing in Ben’s baby blues. “Why are you so interested in Kamarov?”
“He’s got great clavicles.” Ben surprises me with a low dip, and I let out a small yelp, my fingers instinctively gripping
his solid arms. His lips hover dangerously close to mine, and for a brief moment, I think I’d have a better chance resisting
chocolate than I would pushing Ben away right now. As he lifts me back up, he leans in, his breath warm against my ear, and
whispers, “I’m more curious about why someone as sharp as you is working for Earl Edmond.”
“Why do you care?” I whisper back, my voice betraying the way my heart races at the question. I’m unsettled—not by the words,
but by how badly I want to hear his answer.
But before Ben can answer, I catch Sebastian’s gaze. His eyes lock onto mine, an unspoken question in them that sends a chill
through me. I’ve made a mistake. I’ve let Ben distract me. Again.
“I need to go.”
“Cybil—”
“Have a nice night, Mr. Miller.” I force a smile and back away, my feet moving quickly, but Sebastian’s watchful, suspicious
stare follows me.
I turn sharply, making my way off the dance floor and heading straight for the only place I know I can escape the tension—the
ladies’ restroom.
A man bumps into me, his body swaying dangerously before he reaches out, attempting to steady himself against the wall but
missing the mark. He stumbles into me instead, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. “S-sorry,” he mutters, his voice
strained.
I steady him, pushing his shoulders back with more force than I intended, and that’s when I notice it—his eyes a dull, glassy
green, staring at me with a vacant expression. He looks unsteady. There’s no odor of alcohol on his breath, but something’s
off.
“Sir, are you okay?”
His eyes shift slowly, focusing on me beneath heavy lids. “Bathroom?”
Frowning, I point to the door behind him. “Right there.”
“Thanks,” he mutters, barely making eye contact before he turns away and trudges slowly toward the restroom, each step heavy
like he’s fighting just to move.
I stand there for a moment, watching him enter the restroom. Concern creeps into my chest. Should I get him help? I’m about
to go find a server to check on the man when I catch a murmur of a conversation drifting toward me from the kitchen.
Ramirez. His voice is low but sharp, his words clipped, urgent. “This is the final move. We can’t afford any more delays.”
I instinctively press my back against the wall as my pulse quickens. This could be my chance to gather the information I need—if
I can get close enough. But then I hear Ben’s voice, deep and steady, joining the conversation. My stomach tightens.
My mind is warring with the urge to find out what they’re saying and the reality that I might learn how deeply Ben is involved—that
he might not be the man I keep wanting him to be.
The thought grips me like a vise, and for a moment I’m paralyzed. If I take one step closer, I might shatter the fragile hope
I’ve been holding on to. But if I walk away now, I’ll never know the truth.