Chapter 2
1415 Words
Chapter 2: The Deal with the Devil
Florence's POV
The ballroom is alive with the hum of jazz music and the soft clinking of champagne glasses. Couples sway to the rhythm, their faces glowing under the soft, golden light of the chandeliers. It’s the kind of scene I used to dream about — elegance, music, love in the air. But tonight, everything feels wrong.
I sit at the edge of the bar, tapping my fingers against the glass of untouched champagne. My emerald-green dress still fits like perfection, but now it feels tight, suffocating, like it’s trying to hold in all the emotions threatening to spill out. Betrayal tastes bitter on my tongue, and no amount of bubbly sweetness can wash it away.
“Rough night?”
That voice again. Low, smooth, with just a hint of danger. I turn my head and see him — Conan. The man with the storm-gray eyes and the kind of face that makes you forget your own name. He’s leaning casually against the bar, his jacket open, his gaze sharp like he’s already figured me out.
“Understatement of the century,” I mutter, taking a sip of my drink. It’s warm now, but I don’t care. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
He raises an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I was, but I saw someone about to drown in her own thoughts. Figured I’d throw a rope.”
I snort. “Don’t flatter yourself, sailor. I’m not drowning.”
“No?” He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Then why do you look like you’re seconds away from throwing that glass across the room?”
I pause, fingers tightening around the glass. He’s not wrong. For a second, I picture it — the satisfying crash, the sharp shatter, the way all these rich, overdressed strangers would turn and stare. George would hate that. He hates when I “make a scene.”
“Not worth it,” I say quietly, setting the glass down with more force than necessary.
“Pity,” Conan replies, watching me like I’m the most interesting thing in the room. “Would’ve been fun to watch.”
I glance at him, really looking this time. Broad shoulders, sharp jawline, eyes too intense for a man who's supposed to be relaxing on a cruise. There’s something about him — too calm, too sure, like he’s used to being in control.
"Well, sorry to disappoint," I say, folding my arms. "But I’m fresh out of performances for tonight."
"Shame." He leans in, just a little. "But if you’re looking to play a new role, I might have an offer for you."
I narrow my eyes. “That sounds like the start of a bad movie plot.”
“Depends on the movie,” he replies, grin sharp as a knife. “You look like a woman who could use a little... revenge.”
My heart skips. Revenge.
I blink, trying to keep my face neutral, but I know he sees the shift. I don’t have to ask how he knows. Men like Conan see everything. They see cracks before they break.
“Not interested,” I say, turning away, but my voice isn’t as firm as I want it to be.
“Sure you’re not,” he says, sliding onto the barstool next to me. He waves at the bartender, ordering whiskey neat, no hesitation. His gaze flicks back to me. “Let me guess. Boyfriend trouble?”
I stiffen. “Ex-boyfriend.”
“Ah,” he says, sipping his drink like that one word explained everything. “Ex-boyfriend. And let me guess again — you’re thinking about how to make him regret every stupid choice he’s ever made.”
I twist my lips, eyes fixed on the dance floor where couples are still twirling, oblivious to the storm brewing at the bar. He's not wrong.
“Hypothetically,” I say, tilting my head, “if I were thinking about that, what’s it to you?”
Conan turns toward me fully now, his silver eyes locked on mine like we’re playing a game only he knows the rules to. “Let’s just say I’m good at spotting people with unfinished business. And I’m good at finishing things.” He sips his whiskey slowly, his eyes never leaving mine.
I feel a shiver that has nothing to do with the air conditioning. This man is trouble. The kind of trouble that walks in with a grin and leaves with everything you didn’t know you were holding onto.
“Big words,” I say, playing it cool. “But I’m not looking for a hero.”
“Good,” he replies. “Because I’m not one.”
We sit in silence for a moment, his words hanging between us. The bartender slides me a fresh glass of champagne, and I glance at Conan. He didn’t ask for it, but somehow I know it’s from him.
“So,” I say, lifting the glass but not drinking yet, “what exactly is this offer of yours?”
He leans in, his gaze steady, his voice low and deliberate. “Simple. You play my girlfriend for the rest of this cruise. Walk around with me, smile, laugh like you’re having the time of your life. In return, I’ll make sure your ex gets a front-row seat to everything he lost.”
I blink. “That’s it? You want a fake girlfriend?”
He nods, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “It’s a win-win. You get your revenge. I get...” He pauses, his eyes darkening like a storm cloud rolling in. “I get what I need.”
I don’t ask what that is. Not yet.
“Why me?” I ask, folding my arms.
“Because you’re angry,” he says simply, his eyes sharp like a wolf stalking prey. “And angry people are unpredictable. Keeps things interesting.”
I lean back, staring at him. This is insane. Completely insane. Fake dating a man I just met? But then I picture George’s smug face, his stupid voice saying, “It wasn’t that serious.” I picture him watching me, watching us, and suddenly, the idea isn’t so crazy.
“What’s the catch?” I ask, because there’s always a catch.
Conan raises his glass in a silent toast. “The catch is, you have to trust me.”
I huff out a laugh. “Trust you? I don’t even know you.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says, finishing his drink in one smooth motion. “You don’t have to trust me forever. Just long enough to win.”
He stands, buttoning his jacket, eyes never leaving mine. “Think about it, Florence.”
“How do you know my name?” I ask, my heart kicking up a beat.
His grin widens, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I pay attention.”
He turns, walking away as smoothly as he entered, blending into the crowd like a shadow swallowed by darkness. I watch him disappear, my heart still thumping.
I sip my champagne slowly, thinking about George. Thinking about her. My fingers tighten around the stem of the glass.
Trust him long enough to win.
I stand, smoothing down my dress, my mind already made up.
When I spot Conan on the other side of the ballroom, talking to a man I don’t recognize, I walk right up to him. He sees me coming, tilting his head slightly, his eyes narrowing with interest.
“Alright, Mr. Mysterious,” I say, crossing my arms. “You want a fake girlfriend? Fine. But I have conditions.”
He raises an eyebrow, stepping in close. Too close. “I’m listening.”
“No surprises,” I say firmly. “No lies.”
“No lies,” he repeats, that wolfish grin returning.
“And if you cross me,” I say, narrowing my eyes, “I will ruin you.”
His grin sharpens, eyes flickering with something I can’t name. “I’d expect nothing less.”
He holds out his hand. “Deal?”
I hesitate for half a second, but then I place my hand in his. His grip is warm, firm, and for some reason, it feels like I just shook hands with the devil himself.
“Deal,” I say, locking eyes with him.
And just like that, it begins.
- Writer
