Dangerous Charades
1433 Words
The sapphires flashed across Arielle's skin as if the evening had arrived to steal a kiss from her. She glided like wet retribution, covered in black silk that dipped low at the back, slit up to the thigh, collarbones sparkling with diamonds she did not purchase, around a throat he had not yet strangled.
Not yet.
Xander's exclusive engagement party was invite-only and an invitation, in this case, equated to influence. CEOs and politicians, celebrity entrepreneurs, and scandal-hungry looky-loos faking champagne sips as they gobbled up every photo of the new woman on his arm.
Arielle Santos.
Ex-fiancée. Fake fiancée. Week-long viral goddess.
And she played it like a master.
"Smile," Xander whispered against her temple as they entered side by side. "You're doing a great job making everybody believe we're hopelessly in love."
"I am smiling," she whispered back, fingers intertwined in his, her well-manicured hands curling with practiced elegance. "It just happens to appear as if I wish to bite someone."
"Let's hope you begin with me," he said softly, his low, masculine laughter vibrating along her side as he put a possessive hand on her lower back.
They didn't kiss for the cameras. Not yet. That moment was on its way, perfectly timed. Controlled.
Because all of this, tonight was a show.
Until it wasn't.
The flash drive had played in silence.
Arielle's sleeping shape, back twisted in the curve of satin sheets. The camera was low. Concealed. Stable.
Xander's jaw had tightened with each shot.
She didn't know.
Someone had been inside her apartment. Inside.
And not just observing.
Recording.
He'd hired one of his own private security contractors, a former NSA, no loose ends. The team had already swept her building.
He hadn't said anything.
Not yet.
Because if Arielle Santos was going to be living in her name, even for a little while, then anyone who laid hands on her without his say-so was doing something they wouldn't live to regret.
A waiter went by. Xander grabbed two flutes of champagne and passed one to her. "To us," he murmured, raising the glass.
"To public deceit and private excess," she said with a smile, clinking their glasses together.
They sipped.
And then he appeared.
Brent.
Arielle saw him from across the room in a stone-jawed, dark suit, standing like a statue at the end of the bar.
Her body froze.
Xander saw where she was looking.
Recognition broke like a storm.
"Tell me that's not him."
"Brent," she whispered. "And, of course, he'd make an appearance." He never misses a chance to rewrite the script."
"Should I eject him?" Xander asked rhetorically, one brow quirked up. "Or would that be too possessive?"
Arielle's lips curved slowly. "No. Let him watch."
"Watch what?"
She gazed up at him through her lashes. "You're kissing me like you mean it."
That was all he needed.
He didn't ease into it.
Xander Cruz wasn't built for gentle.
He tipped her chin up with two fingers, and his mouth descended on hers with precision and flame. The world spun. Cameras flashed. Guests froze.
And then she kissed him back.
Open. Desperate. Dangerous.
Her fists were around his suit jacket. His tongue stroked inside her mouth. Her body curved into him his arm around her waist, as if taking possession, as if defying anyone to try and take it away.
The kiss was hard. Unrepent.
A show.
But whatever lay locked behind their facades, something behind both of them snapped wide open.
Breathless, they broke apart. The room was a hum of rumors and seething jealousy.
Throughout the gala, Brent's glass hit the floor, shattering.
They didn’t wait.
The second they entered the private wing of the Cruz estate, the door slammed behind them. Her dress hit the floor first. Then his shirt.
Xander had her pressed to the wall before she could speak, one hand tangled in her hair, the other sliding between her thighs.
“You’re soaked,” he muttered in her mouth.
"You're late," she snapped back, her voice a moan as he inserted two fingers into her with ruthless accuracy.
"I want him to know," he snarled. "That when he sees you leave here tomorrow, your body will still be seeping from me."
"Then sh*t up and show me."
He did.
He swept her onto the wall. Hard. Standing. Her legs around him, her yelps muffled by his lips. Then on the floor. On the mirrored bar countertop. His hands were everywhere. He's ripping him like starving after some feast of long duration.
It wasn't s*x.
It was war.
And it ended with both of them destroyed, gasping, and knotted on the costly fur rug in the center of a billionaire's universe.
Afterglow
"Still convinced this is not real?" he whispered, running lazy fingers up her thigh.
"Absolutely sure," she lied.
Because something was changing.
She wasn't supposed to want him once the cameras stopped rolling. She wasn't supposed to feel protected in his arms.
But he'd read the flash drive.
He'd read the warning.
And she didn't know it yet, but she was already in more trouble than she knew.
Meanwhile, A Hidden Apartment in Brooklyn
Brent was in front of the screens.
One was displayed at the gala. The kiss. Body language.
Another displayed scenes from within Arielle's apartment.
The third displayed Xander Cruz.
On repeat.
"Let him touch her," Brent breathed, eyes glazed. "Let him f*ck her." Let him believe he wins."
He drew a syringe from the work surface. A vial. Measured something with clinical calm.
"She was mine first."
A noise from the hallway. A woman's voice.
"Brent?"
Mia.
His face changed.
Predator.
“You followed her,” she said coldly. “You’re obsessed." You’re losing it.”
He stepped toward her.
Smiling.
“I lost her once,” he said softly. But not again. You’re going to help me get her back.”
Mia paled.
“What?”
But it was too late.
He locked the door behind her.
Arielle lay tangled in silk, Xander asleep beside her, the world believing a fantasy.
But the game had twisted.
Now it wasn’t about love.
It was about control.
And someone was going to take it—forcibly.
Arielle woke up before daybreak. The sheets twisted between her thighs reeked of s*x and contentment, but her thoughts were not tranquil.
Far from it.
Next to her, Xander was sprawled on his back, one arm over his eyes, chest heaving in that slow, steady pace that always accompanied control well expended. Even sleeping, he was dignified enough to seem to rule something. Perhaps her. Perhaps the world.
She eased out of bed, draping the silk robe over her body as she slipped toward the window. The city was waking up lights flashing on like tiny secrets. She rested her hand against the glass, the cold anchoring her mind.
This was only a charade. A show. Simple revenge.
But why did it seem like something more reckless was coiling within her?
She spun around at the sound of his voice.
"You're up early," Xander murmured, voice low, rough from sleep. "Or did I exhaust you so much you looped back around to wide awake?"
Arielle smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "You're a lot of things, Xander Cruz, but you're not the reason I'm up."
He raised himself slowly, resting his elbows on his knees. "No?"
She hesitated. "Something's wrong."
There. She said it.
"I don't mean between us," she explained. "I mean… I feel watched."
The smile faltered. Just for a moment. So quickly she almost didn't see it.
"You're not crazy," he said, standing and tugging on his pants. "I wasn't going to tell you yet, but someone is watching. I found surveillance in your apartment."
Her stomach plummeted.
"What?"
"A camera. Hidden. Someone's been filming you."
"Who?" she snapped.
"I have suspicions," Xander replied, tone growing cold steel. "But I hate to accuse someone until I know how I want to take them down."
Arielle gritted her teeth. Her history came raging back Brent's possessive glares, Mia's self-satisfied smirks. The shame. The violation.
"I want to know everything."
"You will," he vowed. "Tonight we're going to the Monarch Charity Gala. High security. Media. Eyes everywhere."
"And?"
"And I want you on my arm," he said, moving close. "Not for appearances. But because whoever is playing this game needs to know that you're no longer alone."
Arielle looked at him.
Something in his face frightened her.
Not because it was angry. But because it was protective.
And she didn't know how to survive that.
- Writer
