Chapter5
909 Words
Kai Cross
I didn’t expect her to smile.
Not really.
Not the real kind of smile—the type that made her cheek dimple just slightly and her eyes flicker, like something fragile had cracked through her mask.
But there it was.
And it ruined everything.
Because for one terrifying second, I forgot who she was.
I forgot the plan. The danger. The fact that this woman might very well be planting a bomb under everything my family had built.
For a second, I saw her.
Not the Vale heiress with a vengeance streak and a wicked mouth.
Just Aurora.
And that made her infinitely more dangerous.
The smile disappeared as quickly as it came.
She curled her fingers around my elbow like the perfect bride-to-be as we ascended the steps to the Met Gala's winter pavilion, dressed to convince the world that this arrangement wasn’t a slow-motion implosion.
“You’re late,” she murmured without turning her head.
“So are you.”
“But I look better.”
She wasn’t wrong.
Her gown was silver silk, molded to her like liquid starlight, every inch of her an invitation and a warning. Her dark hair swept to one side, revealing the slope of her neck and the diamond earring that winked every time she moved.
A statement piece.
And a message.
Because I knew that earring. My father had designed it thirty years ago—part of a once-legendary collection now gathering dust in a locked vault after the Vale family collapsed. No one had seen that design since Aurora’s father died.
She wore it like armor.
“I see you raided the Vale archives,” I said as we neared the ballroom.
She smiled at a passing camera. “Don’t worry. I left the grenades at home.”
I didn’t doubt it.
We entered to a thunder of applause. Flashes. Champagne towers. Glittering gowns. Diamond-laced handshakes.
And beneath it all, the insidious hum of politics.
Lucian Cross’s world.
My inheritance.
And now… hers, too.
“Mr. Cross,” a woman purred, reaching for my hand. “Congratulations on the engagement. You must tell us how you met.”
Aurora answered for me, her voice satin-smooth. “It was fate,” she said. “At a gala just like this one. I spilled champagne on his shoes. He asked for my number instead of suing me.”
The women laughed. I raised an eyebrow.
“Not bad,” I murmured as we moved on. “Do you write fiction professionally?”
“I’ve had to survive a decade of society events. I could write romance novels in my sleep.”
“If you ever publish, I want royalties.”
“You’ll get nothing,” she said, flashing another perfect smile for the next camera. “Just like I did when your family stole everything from mine.”
There it was.
The edge.
The truth between the lines.
She didn’t want my name. She wanted a kingdom.
And maybe revenge.
I watched her navigate the room like a blade in heels—graceful, calculated, untouchable. Every time someone approached, she shifted closer to me, making sure the cameras saw our linked arms and mirrored body language.
We were flawless.
On the outside.
But I couldn’t stop watching her.
Not just because she was beautiful—she was—but because she made me feel something I didn’t like.
Off-balance.
Outplayed.
Seen.
“You haven’t touched your drink,” she noted, voice low as we reached the edge of the balcony for some air.
“Don’t need liquid courage.”
“Not even for pretending to be in love with your enemy?”
I turned to face her fully. “Are we enemies?”
She blinked. “Aren’t we?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
Her eyes darkened. “You’re supposed to hate me. Or at least mistrust me.”
“Oh, I do,” I said with a slow smile. “I just haven’t decided if I care enough to act on it.”
That earned a real reaction.
She exhaled sharply and shook her head. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here you are. Wearing my last name like a weapon.”
She glanced down at the ring on her finger. Simple. Elegant. Platinum. I had picked it myself—despite knowing the whole thing was a lie.
It had felt wrong not to choose something that suited her.
“I’ve worn worse,” she muttered.
“Like what?”
“Hope,” she said quietly, looking out at the skyline.
And suddenly I saw the girl beneath the steel.
The child who had watched her father be dragged away. Who had walked back into high society wearing her shame like perfume. Who had learned to wield vengeance because no one ever gave her the luxury of peace.
I should’ve looked away.
Instead, I offered her my drink.
She blinked. “Poisoning me already?”
“It’s ginger ale.”
“Why?”
“You look like you’ve been nauseous all night.”
Her eyes flicked up, wide for just a moment.
But she didn’t answer.
She took the glass and sipped.
That was when the first real c***k in her armor showed.
Barely there. A tremor. A shift in her gaze.
She was hiding something.
And for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know what it was.
- Writer
