The Devil Wears Armani: Step-Brother of Sin

Command Performance PART2

The DeLeon estate's courtyard had been transformed since the wedding reception, so thoroughly reimagined I barely recognized it as the same space. Where soft pastels and delicate florals once reigned, tonight's decor screamed something bolder, more dramatic. Red roses spilled from hanging baskets, and wild flowers threaded between them in vibrant bursts of color. Fake lawn grass carpeted the courtyard floor, so lush and green it looked almost artificial under the string lights.

I took it all in, the opulence, the sheer cost of transforming a space twice in one month, and thought about how nice it must be to have this kind of money. My idea of redecorating was a printed poster with some quote I'd stolen off Pinterest, maybe a secondhand rug if I was feeling fancy.

I wondered what exactly warranted this gathering, this collection of influential people milling around in their finest. My mother hadn't bothered explaining, and I'd been too embarrassed, too raw, to ask Demetrio directly. Not that I had his number anyway. Though I'd bet my entire tuition fund he had mine.

Across the courtyard, I spotted Georgiana huddled with a cluster of girls her age, all giggling and whispering about whatever teenage girls whispered about these days.

My mind snagged on our one prior meeting, the chill she'd greeted me with still fresh enough to sting. I studied her now, noted how her smile never quite reached her eyes, how her laughter came a half-second too calculated. It struck me suddenly that this girl wasn't the obtuse, haughty princess I'd written her off as. There were storms hiding behind that polished exterior, storms she'd learned to mask early.

"Cellie."

My mother's voice, right behind me.

I turned. "Mama," I said, greeting her while feeling suddenly, painfully aware of my own skin, my own dress. For the first time since I'd zipped it up, I wondered if the backless dark green number had been a mistake.

Not that I'd had many options. This or a shabby thigh-length thing, or the dress I'd already worn once to the wedding. Choices were a luxury I didn't currently possess.

My mother smiled, that practiced, camera-ready smile. "Come greet Manuel and his partners."

I stiffened but followed anyway, my heels clicking against stone. The walk across the courtyard took longer than it should have, punctuated by my mother pausing every few feet to play hostess, to laugh at jokes that weren't funny, to introduce me as her "precious adopted daughter" with a warmth so convincing I almost believed it myself. I stood like furniture through each introduction, unbothered by the performance. This was simply who she was in public. She never let anyone glimpse the truth of what lived between us.

I had to hand it to her, though. What better way to bury a difficult past than to rebrand yourself as a benevolent society wife, draped in charity and grace? I'd bet money she had some foundation in the works already, something with her name embossed in gold on the letterhead.

We finally reached the cluster of chairs where Manuel and his associates lounged, drinks in hand, and my mother repeated her saccharine introduction for what felt like the hundredth time that evening.

"Manuel, Cellie is here." She beamed at her husband, then turned to the others. "Gentlemen, this is my daughter, Cellie."

I forced my lips into something resembling a smile as the men's eyes crawled over me, slow and assessing. It made my skin crawl, the way their gazes lingered.

"She's beautiful," one of them said, grinning wide enough to show teeth.

"Indeed," said another, a man with a long scar tracing from eyebrow to chin. He tilted his head, considering me. "We might need to pause business discussions for marriage plans, DeLeon."

I froze, my spine locking into place.

Manuel laughed, low and easy. "Now, now, McKell. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. My son is still too busy adjusting to his new role to consider marriage."

My shoulders loosened, just slightly, only for the relief to evaporate seconds later when another man suggested his nephew instead. Panic climbed my throat like bile.

Manuel fell silent, eyebrows drawing together in genuine consideration. I registered, with rising alarm, that he was actually entertaining this. My breath came shallow and uneven. Marriage sat nowhere on my list of priorities. I had school to finish, a life to live before anyone chained me to a ring and a surname. I didn't want any of this, not now, maybe not ever. But watching them discuss my future like I wasn't standing three feet away, like my body wasn't the very thing up for negotiation, made it painfully clear that my opinion mattered to exactly no one in this circle.

This was their world. Women didn't get a vote. Nausea rolled through me in a slow, sickening wave.

"I believe this is a task meant for me."

The voice, achingly familiar, came from directly behind me.

I steadied myself internally before turning to face my stepbrother, my whole body humming to life at the mere sight of him, traitorous and immediate.

He looked devastating in his charcoal grey suit, jaw clean-shaven where stubble had roughened it the last time I'd seen him this close. His black hair was styled back from his face, sharp and severe, giving him the bearing of some old-world aristocrat stepping out of a painting.

I liked it better messy, I thought, then immediately hated myself for thinking it.

I inwardly groaned, praying to whatever god might be listening that I wasn't blushing, that my cheeks hadn't betrayed me the way the rest of my body seemed determined to.

Demetrio moved forward, stopping directly at my side. Too close. Entirely too close, his proximity setting every nerve ending on high alert, my skin suddenly aware of him in a way that felt almost violent.

He inclined his head toward his father's company, a curt, respectful bow. "You don't need to concern yourself with this, Father. I'll handle finding suitable options for Cellie and Georgiana myself."

Manuel considered this for a beat, then nodded, apparently satisfied. "Of course. I trust you'll manage it well."

The old men grumbled amongst themselves, a few mumbled words of assent, but no one objected outright.

"Now, if you'll excuse us, I'd like to introduce Cellie to a few people," Demetrio announced, his hand settling against the bare skin of my lower back before I could protest.

I fought back a shiver at the contact, his palm warm and steady, entirely too confident for a touch that hadn't been invited.

We were well out of earshot before he finally spoke. "You really don't own any proper clothes, do you."

Whatever gratitude I'd been building for his rescue died an instant death, the thank you I'd been about to voice curdling in my throat.

"You seem to forget not everyone has the money you swim in," I shot back.

His eyes darkened, something sharp flickering there. "I might not be an expert on poverty, but I'm fairly certain even poor people manage decent clothing."

What an absolute jerk.

"Well, too bad for you. I'm not a decent poor person," I returned, flippant, satisfaction blooming when a muscle ticked in his jaw.

Whatever scathing reply he'd been preparing died on his lips, interrupted by a voice, feminine and bright as wind chimes.

"Demetrio?"

We both turned toward the sound, and I let out a soft, involuntary gasp. The woman approaching us was beautiful in a way that felt almost unfair, so stunning I briefly wondered if she'd stepped out of some airbrushed magazine spread. She moved like she owned the ground beneath her, hips swaying with the confidence of someone who'd never once doubted her own appeal, her sparkling gaze locked entirely on Demetrio.

When she reached us, she didn't hesitate, didn't pause for pleasantries. She simply wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled him down into an embrace that felt far too intimate for public company.

"I've missed you," she murmured against his ear, her voice pitched low, private, like I wasn't even standing there.

My eyes went wide enough to ache.

What the hell?