Married To My Devilish Rival

Chapter 3

Daphne Whitmore

Try not to let it ruin your evening.

24 hours later, Tristan’s snarky voice and smirking face are the only things I can think of. Irritation claws at me as he invades my head, my personal thoughts like an unwelcome guest.

I think of the hundreds of ways I should have lashed at him.

Go to hell, Tristy.

That’s much better.

“You look like you’re about to murder someone.”

Imani’s voice pulls me out of my train of thought. She leans against the doorway, adjusting the sleeves of her corporate suit, her blonde hair neatly tucked into a bun. A knowing smile plays on her lips.

She’s one of the few people who knows me beyond the title of CEO. After years of working together, she’s become a friend. Unfortunately, she’s also someone who knows me far too well.

“I might.”

She smirks.

“Who is the victim?” She crosses the room. “Is it Tristan?” She pulls out the chair directly in front of her.

“Get out.”

She narrows her eyes at me, pretending to be offended. “Ouch, that’s not how you speak to the only person who tolerates you.”

She bats her lashes, pouting.

The corners of my lips lift before I press them into a thin line.

“Imani.” I warn.

“Daphne,” she says, mimicking my warning tone.

Heaving a sigh, I lean back into my seat. “I’m not in a good mood.”

“Does this have to do with Tristan?” She asks, a hint of amusement in her voice.

A scowl etches onto my face. “Do you want to keep your job?”

Her eyes glint with mischief. “I thought as much.”

The expression disappears as quickly as it appeared, replaced by something solemn. She sinks into her chair.

“Unfortunately, Project Singapore is in trouble”

That’s enough to grab my attention and straighten my spine.

“What?”

She blows out a breath. “We’re behind schedule, the local team has stopped responding to half our requests, and the latest reports doesn’t match the figures we were given last month.”

My day couldn’t get any worse.

As if losing the investment wasn’t enough, I’m now dealing with another work crisis.

I’ve spent two months working alongside the executive team at Whitmore Hotels on this development, and now it’s threatening to fall apart.

I knew the risks that came with expanding internationally, but I still took the chance. I believed we could pull it off. I was so caught up in what this expansion could mean for Whitmore Hotels that I hadn’t considered how quickly things could go wrong.

And now, it’s all waiting to come crashing down.

Daphne, you’re a CEO. Act like it

I snap out of it.

“How badly behind schedule?”

I hold my breath.

“If things continue this way, we won't be ready for the launch we’re supposed to open in twelve weeks.”

I heave a sigh, pressing a hand to my forehead.

Tristan would be having the time of his life watching me fail.

I can almost hear his laugh.

I can’t give him that satisfaction.

“Send the full report to my mail.” I spring up from my seat, shoving my phone into my bag. “And arrange a call with Adrian Blackwood. Let’s work on fixing this mess.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “And where are you off to?”

“Home.”

The lie slips out so easily, I almost believe it but I know better.

I’m going somewhere far from home. Far from work. Far from this crisis.

And especially, far from Tristan’s smug face haunting my mind.

The club is buzzing tonight.

Petali Neri, the infamous club with dim lighting, velvet couches, a stage dominated by a golden pole that glitters beneath the warm, golden lights.

And then there’s Noire.

The masked performer who appears only on Fridays.

The one who keeps people on the edge of their seat.

“You ready, Noire?”

Matteo, the club owner, calls my attention. His familiar voice fills the room as he strides towards me.

“Always. It’s extra crowded tonight.”

“You know, you bring in all the good customers,” he says, his Italian accent evident in his words.

I smile, my eyes crinkling at the corners. It feels like my first genuine smile in a while.

When I first met Matteo, he recognized me almost instantly.

Heiress to a multi-million company. Daphne Whitmore, whose face appeared on almost every billboard and in countless magazines.

And he had outright said no when I told him I wanted to pole dance in his club even after I slapped a million dollars in his face. After a lot of convincing and reassurance, he finally agreed.

Lost in thoughts, I catch a glance at myself in the mirror.

Green eyes staring right back at me.

I look different.

My mother will never recognise her prim and proper daughter beneath the layers of disguise. The makeup. The mask. The blonde wig. The skimpy outfit that exposes enough skin and the red, unholy ink swirling across my back.

Even my mother will have a heart attack if she sees me dressed this way. Or worse. How I spend my Fridays.

With one last look at the mirror, I push to my feet, bubbling with excitement as I head towards the door.

“Go shine, Noire,” Matteo calls after me.

The moment I step onto the stage, stage lights blind me and the applause from the crowd drowns out the frantic beating of my heart. Somewhere in the crowd, someone whistles. Another yells my name. Noire not Daphne.

Then the music starts, silencing the crowd. A soft melody turns into a deep bass, pulsating beneath my feet before the beat surges through the room.

My body moves across the platform, as though it has a mind of its own. My fingers find the pole, the cold from the metal seeping into my palm as I wrap my hand around it.

For a moment, the rest of the world disappears.

Good. That’s how I want it.

Somewhere in the middle of my performance, I let my gaze wander around the crowd, searching for someone to play my little game with.

It’s a little game I like to play. I choose someone, hold their gaze and see how long they can stand it before looking away.

Who will it be tonight?

My eyes sweep past the regulars, skim over the bar, then move towards the private booths.

And stop.

Someone is watching me from the shadows.

There’s something strangely intense about his gaze. It catches mine and holds it, drawing my attention back even when I try to look elsewhere.

Interesting.

He shifts in his seat, and the light catches his face.

Wait.

I know those eyes. And that infuriatingly unreadable expression.

My fingers tighten around the pole. I almost miss a step.

Oh, no.

When I thought I'd escaped Daphne Whitmore’s world for one night, Tristan Carrington had somehow found his way into it.

And he was sitting barely ten feet away.

Watching me.