Chapter 4: Hidden Truths
985 Words
The Kensington ballroom pulsed with opulence, chandeliers casting golden light over London’s elite. Iva felt the weight of Harris Malcom’s gaze as they moved across the dance floor, his strong hand firm on her lower back, guiding her through a slow waltz. Her emerald dress clung to her curves, the thigh-high slit catching his eye more than once. His black tuxedo accentuated his muscular frame, and the heat of his touch sent a shiver through her, despite the fire of their enmity. Damian Cole’s chilling proposition echoed in her mind: Join me, and I’ll show you the truth about Malcom Innovations. The card he’d slipped her burned in her clutch, alongside the stolen locket from Harris’s penthouse.
Harris’s grip tightened, his green eyes locking onto hers, a storm of intensity. “You’re distracted,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her. “Thinking about Cole?”
Iva’s chin lifted, defiance flaring. “Should I be? He seems to know more about you than I do.”
His jaw clenched, a flicker of danger in his gaze. “Damian’s a liar. Whatever he told you, it’s a game.”
“Then why don’t you tell me the truth?” she shot back, her voice sharp but low, mindful of the crowd. Their bodies swayed closer, his thigh brushing hers through the dress’s slit, sending an unwelcome jolt of heat to her core. She hated how his dominance, his sheer presence, unraveled her resolve.
“You wouldn’t believe me,” he said, his breath warm against her ear, stirring her hair. “Not yet.”
She pulled back slightly, meeting his eyes. “Try me, Malcom. Or are you afraid I’ll see through you?”
His smirk was slow, predatory, as he spun her, pulling her flush against him. “Careful, Iva. You’re not ready for my secrets.”
The music swelled, and their dance became a duel, her defiance matching his control. His hand slid lower, resting just above the curve of her hip, and her breath hitched. His touch was deliberate, a challenge, and her fingers tightened on his shoulders, feeling the hard muscle beneath. For a moment, the world narrowed to the heat between them, their enmity a thin veil over something raw, dangerous.
The song ended, and Harris released her, his gaze lingering as if reluctant to let go. Before Iva could speak, Damian Cole approached, his sharp blue eyes glinting with calculated charm. “Mind if I cut in?” he asked, his smile smooth but edged with menace.
Harris’s expression hardened. “She’s not your pawn, Cole.”
Damian’s laugh was low, taunting. “Not yet. But you’ve always been good at losing what matters, haven’t you, Harris? Like back in Cambridge.”
Iva’s pulse spiked at the mention of Cambridge, the photo from the safe flashing in her mind Harris, Damian, and Clara, young and carefree. What had happened between them? Harris’s hand twitched, as if resisting the urge to strike, but he stepped back, his eyes cold. “Stay away from her.”
Damian ignored him, turning to Iva. “He didn’t tell you, did he? About the deal he stole, the future he ruined. Ask him about Clara.”
Iva’s stomach twisted, the locket’s weight heavy in her clutch. “What about her?” she asked, her voice steady despite her racing heart.
Damian leaned closer, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “She was the price of his empire. And you’re next.”
Harris grabbed Damian’s arm, his grip iron. “Enough,” he growled, his voice low but lethal. The tension between them crackled, drawing curious glances from nearby guests. Damian shrugged free, his smile unfazed, and melted into the crowd.
Iva turned to Harris, her eyes blazing. “What was that about? Who’s Clara?”
Harris’s face was a mask, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of pain. “Not here,” he said, guiding her toward a quieter alcove. “You want answers, you’ll get them. But not with him watching.”
She yanked her arm free, frustration boiling. “Stop dodging, Harris. Damian knows something, and so do you. I’m not your pawn either.”
He stepped closer, towering over her, his voice a dangerous whisper. “You’re not a pawn. But you’re in deeper than you realize.”
Before she could retort, a snippet of conversation from a nearby group of suited men caught her ear. “Cole Dynamics is moving fast,” one said, his voice low. “If Malcom doesn’t act, it’s a hostile takeover by next quarter.”
Iva’s breath caught. A takeover? Was this Damian’s endgame? She glanced at Harris, but his attention was on the crowd, his jaw tight. He hadn’t heard, but the weight of secrets his, Damian’s, the locket’s pressed on her.
Needing air, Iva excused herself, slipping toward a balcony overlooking London’s twinkling lights. She opened her clutch, pulling out the locket. Its silver surface gleamed, the inscription “Clara” stark in the moonlight. She flipped it open, revealing the photo inside: a young woman with dark hair and hazel eyes, her face eerily similar to Iva’s own. Her heart pounded. Was this Clara, Harris’s sister? And why did Damian’s words “She was the price of his empire” feel like a warning?
She tucked the locket away, but as she turned, Harris’s coat, draped over a nearby chair, caught her eye. On impulse, she checked its pocket, her fingers brushing another photo. She pulled it out, her breath catching. It was Clara again, laughing, her arm around Harris, with Damian on her other side. But this photo was different, Clara’s eyes held a warmth directed at Damian, a hint of something more.
Footsteps approached, and Iva shoved the photo back, her mind racing. Was Clara the key to Damian’s vendetta? And why did her face mirror Iva’s own?
- Writer
