Mask

War In Silk Dress

It had been weeks.

Weeks since I’d heard the name Olivia Sloane spoken like a curse in the Croft dining hall. Weeks since Arthur Croft’s voice had shaken the walls, demanding answers that never came. Weeks of silence.

And silence, in this house, was never peace. It was a weapon.

Klaude hadn’t brought her up. Neither had I.

We lived in the same house, ate at the same table, smiled for the same cameras. Played the roles written for us like perfect little actors.

But underneath the marble floors and gilt ceilings, something rotted.

And tonight, I decided to rip it open.

I found him in the garden at dusk, sprawled on the marble bench like some fallen god, careless and smug. The twilight painted him in fire and shadow, but he looked perfectly at ease, scrolling lazily through his phone as if the world didn’t orbit around his sins.

He didn’t look surprised to see me. He never did.

“To what do I owe the honor?” he drawled, not even glancing up.

I folded my arms, silk whispering against my skin like the reminder of the armor I wore. “We need to talk.”

“Do we?” His voice was lazy, mocking. “Because you look like you’re here to scold me. And I don’t take well to lectures.”

My nails dug crescent moons into my palms. “Then consider this a warning instead.”

That caught him. His thumb stilled. His phone clicked off.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze — those eyes, cold and sharp, the kind that sliced straight through you.

“What exactly are you warning me about, fiancée?”

The word dripped with mockery.

I took a measured step forward, my heels crunching against the gravel path. The scent of roses clung to the night air, but beneath it, I swore I could smell smoke — him. Wood, fire, danger.

“Don’t insult me by acting like I don’t know,” I said softly, silk-wrapped venom.

His brow lifted, feigning innocence. “Know what?”

“About her.”

The corner of his mouth curved into that infuriating smirk. “Ah. So you’ve heard the gossip.”

“Gossip?” I almost laughed, the sound sharp enough to cut. “Is that what you call it when you take my friend to bed?”

Silence.

For a heartbeat, I thought he might lie. Pretend. Twist the truth into something elegant enough to swallow.

But Klaude Croft wasn’t a coward.

He leaned back, stretching along the bench like a king in his throne, arms resting wide. “Olivia isn’t your friend.”

The audacity.

“She sat in my dorm room. She cried on my shoulder. She told me she’d die for me,” I hissed. My voice cracked on the edges of memory, but I forced it sharp again. “She was my shadow for years. And while I trusted her, you—”

“—f****d her?” he cut in, crude, deliberate, cruel.

The word slammed into me like a slap. My throat burned, but I refused to let him see me flinch.

“Yes,” he said simply. “I did.”

It was almost worse, that honesty.

No excuses. No apologies. Just the truth, laid bare like a blade.

I hated the way my chest ached more than my pride. Hated that part of me wanted to crumble when I should’ve been laughing in his face.

But I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“I should thank you,” I whispered, forcing steel into every syllable.

His eyes narrowed. “For what?”

“For showing me what I already suspected.”

“And what’s that?”

“That you don’t deserve loyalty. From anyone.”

That wiped the smirk clean off his face. His jaw flexed, sharp as stone. “Careful.”

I smiled then — sweet, practiced, Mother’s smile. The kind that looked angelic but was designed to slit throats. “Oh, I am being careful.”

I stepped closer, so close his shadow swallowed mine. He could see it now — the fire burning under my porcelain mask.

“Let me make this clear, Klaude,” I said, my voice low, sharp as glass. “You can do whatever you want. Sleep with whomever you want. Pretend I don’t exist. But if my name — my name — gets tainted because of your little distractions?”

I leaned in, lips nearly brushing his ear. My breath trembled, but my words didn’t.

“I’ll burn you. And her. And anyone stupid enough to think they can humiliate me.”

The silence between us was suffocating.

For once, Klaude Croft didn’t have a quick quip, a mocking smirk, a careless dismissal.

Instead, he rose, towering over me, his presence heavy as a storm. His gaze pinned me, daring me to look away.

“You think you can play this game with me, Anastasia?” he asked, voice dangerously soft.

My heart hammered so loud it echoed in my ears, but I didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“I don’t play,” I said. “I win.”

The air between us pulsed, fire licking at the edges of restraint.

And then he laughed.

Low. Dark. Amused.

“You’re learning,” he murmured, brushing past me, his shoulder grazing mine with deliberate force.

But before he left, he leaned down, close enough for his breath to ghost over my cheek.

“Keep it up, Angel. One day, you might actually scare me.”

And then he was gone.

The door clicked shut, leaving me alone among the roses.

Only then did I let myself breathe — shallow, ragged, furious.

It hurt. God, it hurt more than I wanted to admit.

But I wouldn’t bleed for him.

No. If love felt like this, maybe I’d rather learn how to destroy it than survive it.

And one day, Klaude Croft would learn — wars aren’t always fought with swords.

Sometimes they’re fought in silk dresses.