Chapter 6 #2
"If I'm judging correctly," he says, resting one hand against the back of the velvet armchair beside him, "I don't think they would've gotten very far."
Only then do I face him properly. Up close, his presence feels heavier somehow.
More intense. The kind that shifts the atmosphere around him without effort.
Whiskey, smoke, and something darker cling faintly to him as he stops beside.
Under the low amber lighting, the scar beneath his lips becomes more noticeable, drawing my attention far longer than it should.
Nothing about him feels polished. And yet every person in this room bends around his presence without meaning to.
Dangerous. That word keeps returning.
"Well," he says after a moment, his gaze moving slowly over me, "what is a woman like you doing here?"
I swirl the whiskey lightly in my glass. "What kind of woman am I?"
His eyes narrow slightly like he wasn’t expecting the question back.
"Clearly dangerous." He murmurs. The answer comes too easily. Then his gaze drifts deliberately over the mask covering half my face before returning to my eyes. "And very good at pretending otherwise."
I arch a brow. "Interesting observation from a man hiding behind a ghost story."
Something faint shifts at the corner of his mouth. Not irritation. But interest?
"Are you always this argumentative," he asks calmly, "or am I receiving special treatment tonight, Elf?"
The word catches me off guard enough to annoy me instantly.
I should let it go. Instead, I tilt my head slightly. "That depends. Are all your conversations built around intimidation and mystery, or is that reserved for women you’re trying to impress?"
A soft huff of amusement leaves him. "You think I’m trying to impress you?"
"I think men with reputations like yours usually enjoy performing for them."
That finally earns me a proper reaction. Not anger. A smile. Small, brief and dangerous.
A dimple appears in his cheek unexpectedly, sharp enough to momentarily ruin the severity of his face. My attention drifts lower without permission. To the scar beneath his lips again. Something about it feels strangely familiar.
I stare half a second too long. And his eyes darken almost immediately.
"Do you want to kiss me?" He asks softly. "Is that why you’re staring at my lips?"
Heat flashes across my face so fast it irritates me. I look away with a scoff. "Your ego is exhausting."
"So that’s a no?"
"I don’t make a habit of kissing men hired through auctions."
Another low laugh. God, that sound does something deeply inconvenient to my nervous system.
I take another sip of whiskey mostly to buy myself a second to recover. "Besides, I’m here for business. Not whatever this is."
"This?" He pushes away from the chair slowly. "You started this."
"I did not."
"You challenged me within thirty seconds."
"I asked questions."
"You provoked me."
The irritating part is that he doesn’t sound offended. If anything, he sounds entertained.
I force myself to hold his gaze evenly. "Maybe your reputation invites provocation."
That makes him step closer. Not enough to touch. Enough to invade space. And every instinct in my body sharpens immediately.
"You think it’s just reputation?" He asks quietly.
There’s no humor left in his voice now. Only darkness and danger.
I should back down. I definitely should. I lift my chin slightly. "I think men often exaggerate themselves."
Silence. Then his eyes move slowly across my face again, thoughtful this time.
"You’re either very brave," he murmurs, "or very reckless."
"I’ve been called worse."
"I’m sure."
The air between us feels strange suddenly. Too close. Too aware. I hate that he affects the atmosphere around him this easily.
Then he bends slightly toward me, close enough that I feel the warmth of his breath near my ear.
"You have an amazing mind, Zora." He says softly. "And a very sharp tongue."
My pulse stumbles once. How does he know my name?
"Sooner or later," he continues, voice velvet-smooth beneath the threat buried inside it, "both will become dangerous for you."
Then, just like that, he steps back and walks away. No goodbye. No final glance. He simply leaves me standing there with whiskey in my hand and my composure hanging by a thread.
I watch him walk away until he disappears into the crowd. What the hell was that?
Annoyance settles in first, directed as much at myself as at him. I came here with a plan. Stay controlled, stay strategic, and impress him enough to secure the job. Instead, I let him drag me into verbal sparring like some reckless amateur.
Worse… I enjoyed it. The realization irritates me immediately.
Around the room, conversations slowly begin rising again while servants move quietly between guests collecting empty glasses.
Then the announcer's voice cuts through the room once more. "Thank you for your patience and interest tonight. You will each receive The Ghost's decision shortly."
That’s it? No theatrics? No drawn-out finale?
Around me, conversations resume and guests begin filtering toward the exits, but my mind is elsewhere.
I replay every moment of our conversation, every question I pushed too far and every challenge I should have kept to myself.
By the time I step outside into the cold night air, I am already convinced I know the answer.
A man like him doesn't choose people who doubt him within minutes of meeting him.
Yet even as the estate disappears behind us during the drive home, fragments of him continue to circle through my thoughts with irritating persistence. Somehow, despite being certain I had ruined my chances before they had even begun, I still couldn't get him out of my head.