Making A Scene

Leo Pov

The crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow across the ballroom as I adjust my bow tie for the third time in ten minutes. My reflection in the mirror shows a man who appears perfectly composed. I'd chosen the tuxedo carefully. Tom Ford, midnight black with satin lapels. The kind of suit that whispered money. Perfect for tonight. My dark hair perfectly styled.

Tonight is the night we'd been planning for days. Our grand entrance into the public as a couple.

"Ready Liam?" Olivia's voice came from behind me. I couldn't risk giving her my real name. Not when the mission is still on.

When I turn, my breath hitches. She looks stunning in an emerald gown that hugged her curves perfectly. Her hair is swept up in an elegant chignon that exposes the graceful line of her neck.

But it is her eyes that give me pause. Those damn green eyes. The lights in the hall made them glow and I didn't want to stop staring.

"Always," I reply, offering her my arm. She slips her hand through the crook of my elbow.

“You look beautiful, daisy,” I whisper.

“You don't have to lie or play the part when no one's around us.”

“But I'm not. I only told the truth.”

She pauses to stare at me for a few seconds.

“Thank you,” she finally says after several heartbeats with a forced smile. “Let's get inside already.”

The Whitmire Foundation's annual charity gala is the kind of event where New York's elite gather to write checks for causes they'd forget about by morning. Olivia got us access to the event after she found out Asher was going to also be in attendance. The perfect start to her revenge- getting Asher jealous.

As we step through the entrance, I feel the familiar shift in the room's energy. Conversations pause mid-sentence and heads turn. Olivia didn't look fazed as her heels click on the floors with precision, her chin raised high. I catch the subtle widening of eyes as people register our presence. The whispers would start within minutes.

"Olivia Murray,” comes a voice to my left. A woman who looked like she lived for gossip approaches us with a smile. “I'll handle her,” Olivia mutters under her breath but just loud enough for me to hear.

"And who is this handsome creature?" the woman continued.

"Margaret Sinclair," Olivia says smoothly.

"I'd like you to meet Liam. Liam, this is Margaret Sinclair. She practically runs half the charitable organizations in the city."

Her smile widens with a flicker in her brown eyes.

I watch Margaret's eyes catalog every detail of my appearance. No doubt calculating my net worth and social connections in the span of seconds. It makes me smirk as I extend my hand to her.

"Mrs. Sinclair, what a pleasure. I've heard so much about your work with literacy programs."

Margaret's eyebrows rise. Either impressed by my knowledge or suspicious of it. I did some little homework before showing up to the gala. Olivia seems surprised too as she gives me a slight stare.

"How refreshing to meet someone who actually pays attention to the causes rather than just the canapés. Tell me, dear, how do you and Olivia know each other?"

Before Olivia could form a response, I feel a familiar presence and turn to meet a taunt gaze. Asher had arrived, and he was watching us from across the room with intense eyes. His jawlines are hard. Perfect.

"We're still figuring that out ourselves," Olivia laughs, easing the question. Margaret and I laugh in unison.

I place my hand on the small of Olivia's back, a gesture intimate enough to fuel speculation. Her spine straightens slightly at my touch, and I wonder if she could feel my pulse through my fingertips.

Margaret’s eyes light up with the unholy glee of someone who’s just stumbled on premium gossip.

“How delightfully cryptic,” she purrs. “Well, I simply must introduce you both to the Hendersons. They’ve just returned from their place in the Hamptons…”

The next hour unfolds like clockwork. Calculated dance of smiles, handshakes, and strategic conversation. I navigate the room with practiced ease. Olivia introduces me to more of her friends, one by one. My eyes are fixed on Asher throughout these conversations. He hasn’t approached, not yet, but I feel the pressure of his attention pressing on me like a second skin.

He’s watching. Waiting. Trying to figure out the rules of a game he’s no longer in control of.

Good. Let him wonder.

I know I'm risking not only the business deal but also my primary mission. But I care less of any of that now. There's something about Olivia that makes me want to break the rules. Or maybe it's the game. I hadn't had this much fun in a minute.

“You’re enjoying this,” Olivia murmurs. Her lips are curved in what looks like an affectionate smile.

“Shouldn’t I be?” I guide her smoothly toward the bar. “You’re playing your part beautifully, by the way.

That conversation with the Weatherbys about art restoration? Masterful. I almost believed you were genuinely interested in their tragically mediocre collection.”

She laughs. Light, effortless. A beautiful sound that glues my eyes on her. It draws the right kind of attention without seeming deliberate. “Acting 101. You find something real to latch onto in every role. Their passion, even for subpar art, was genuine. That’s enough.”

I signal the bartender for champagne, scanning the room again. Asher’s by the auction display, pretending to study a sculpture. But everything about him is taut. His stance, his jaw, the way he grips his glass. He’s barely holding it together. The young woman beside him couldn't have been older than twenty-five, all blonde hair and surgically enhanced curves poured into a dress.

The sight makes me smirk. I enjoy watching how much it is killing him.

“He’s watching,” I murmur, handing Olivia a flute of champagne.

“I know.” She sips delicately, her gaze locked on mine. “We need to give him more. Something worth believing that'll ruin his entire night.”

I don’t even get the chance to come up with a plan. The lights dim, a string orchestra strikes up something lush and romantic, and couples begin drifting toward the dance floor.

Perfect.

“Now,” I say, setting my glass aside. I offer her my hand. “Dance with me.”

The music is something elegant, something slow. I lead her into the soft golden glow at the center of the room.

You're full of surprises," she says as I spin her gently before pulling her back against me. "Where did you learn to dance like this?"

"My mother insisted on lessons when I was twelve. I hated every minute of it at the time, but it's proven surprisingly useful in business situations." I guide us through a simple box step, hyper aware of the way she feels in my arms. There's a slight change in her expression. Almost unnoticeable as she masks it up immediately. "Plus, it's an excellent way to have private conversations in public settings.”

“How very practical of her.”

“Practicality was her middle name. Everything had a purpose. Including me.”

“Tell me about yourself, Liam. Something your girlfriend should know. I don't want to be caught in ridiculous situations that'll have people doubt us,” Olivia says.

Well, Liam's not my name for a start. But I can't tell her that. Or any information about me.

“I wouldn't want to bore you. Tonight’s about us, remember?” I flash her a smile. “New York’s most intriguing new couple,” I reply with a wink.

I spin her again—precisely timing the move—so when she lands back in my arms. We’re perfectly framed in Asher’s line of sight. His knuckles are white around his glass. He says no attention to the blonde's fingers resting on his arms or the conversation she seems to be having with him.

“Time for the grand finale,” I whisper, my lips near her ear, brushing a few loose strands from her updo.

“Are you sure?” she breathes, but her voice trembles.

“Trust me.”

As the music swells, I dip her back. Classical. Her face is inches from mine. For a split second, the room dissolves. I see the flecks of gold in her green eyes. I feel the pulse fluttering in her throat. And then—I kiss her.

It’s supposed to be calculated. A show.

A statement to her ex-fiance.

But the moment our lips touch, something shifts. Her hand comes up to rest lightly on my chest, and she kisses me back. Really kisses me back. Fuck. There’s warmth, taste, breath. Champagne. Secrets. Her. All of her I want to drown in.

And suddenly, I forget we’re being watched.

When we part, the room is noticeably quieter. I help her to her feet, my hand lingering at her waist. We’re both breathless, but composed. Around us, faces burn with curiosity and hunger for scandal.

Then… crash.

The sharp crack of shattering crystal slices through the tension. Asher’s champagne flute lies in shards across the marble floor, golden liquid seeping out.

His face is a study in fury. His eyes are blazing with a clenched jaw and rigid posture. For a moment, our gazes lock. The sheer, concentrated hatred in his expression is almost… beautiful.

And then he turns, storming out of the room like a man unraveling. His blonde mistress follows behind.

Mission accomplished.

“Well,” Olivia says beside me, a little breathless, cheeks flushed. “That certainly got his attention.”

Her eyes move across the room.

“You didn't have to,” she murmurs.

“But it worked just like you wanted.” I straighten my bow tie. “And judging by the way everyone’s looking at us, it got everyone’s attention too.”

But even as I say it, I can’t stop thinking about that kiss. How dangerous it felt.

“Olivia!”

An old woman's voice cut through my thoughts.

“Caroline Whitmire,” Olivia replies with a warm deceitful smile. I almost choke on a laugh, seeing how visibly irritated Olivia is by her presence.

“I had to be sure it was you with the handsome gentleman.”

Her grey eyes rake down my body as she studies me. I offer a smile and a nod.

“That was quite a display. I haven’t seen the dance floor clear that dramatically in years.”

Her smile floats in the air. I move my gaze to Olivia whose cheeks are still flushed.

“Mrs. Whitmire,” she replies smoothly. “Thank you for hosting a wonderful evening. I hope we didn’t cause too much of a scene.”

“Oh, nonsense,” she beams. “Scenes make events memorable. Though poor Asher did look a little... distressed.”

“Did he?” I keep my voice neutral with a grin on. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Olivia forces back a dramatic eye roll. It almost makes me laugh.

Mrs. Whitemire’s eyes sparkle. She’s not fooled. “Of course not. Now, if you'll let me, I must steal your lady.”

Olivia looks slightly miserable as the old woman takes her hand. She mouths “help me”, making my lips spread into a smile. I catch myself almost immediately.

What's happening to me?

As she whisks Olivia away, I’m left alone for the first time all evening. It doesn’t last.

A brunette walks to me. Her yellow dress leaves no room for imagination as her cleavage is on full display with her curves. She glides up, positioning herself a bit too close. “Hi, my name is Victoria Ashford. Are you perhaps new here?”

“I'm afraid I am.”

“I see.”

Her eyes scanning my features slowly with a seductive smile plastered on her face. I notice Olivia watching from across the room, her expression unreadable. Her green eyes are a touch too focused.

Victoria follows my gaze to Olivia's direction.

“I see you came with some company tonight. Olivia Murray.”

Why does that name sound familiar?

“Yes, I did.”

I take a glass of champagne from a passing server.

“Are you a couple?”

I smirk, taking a moment to sip on some champagne.

“Yes, we are,” I reply, moving my gaze to Olivia. Our eyes lock and her gaze is taunt. I can see the firm lines of her jaw.

Victoria covers the disappointment in her eyes too quickly.

“Well then, you must come to my soirée next weekend. Very intimate. Very exclusive. You should really consider.”

She moves closer, slipping a card into my pocket. I take an uncomfortable step backwards.

Before I can respond, another woman joins us.

I entertain them with polite detachment, never giving more than I intend.

This is one of the reasons I've always hated social gatherings. The attention and meaningless conversations. Anything to mask their real intentions. Not that I'll mind if I wasn't here with Olivia.

After what seemed like an eternity, I disentangle myself and find Olivia at the bar, sipping champagne alone.

“Popular night for you,” she says, voice light but not warm.

“Occupational hazard.” I signal for a scotch. “These galas always attract the hunters.”

“Hunters?”

“Predators in hot cocktail dresses.”

She turns toward me, eyes sharp. My joke doesn't seem to make her laugh. I move closer with a grin. The situation is quite too obvious.

“You aren't jealous, are you?” I murmur.

“Should I be?” she counters.

The question lingers between us, heavy with meaning. My fingers meet hers as I try to take her drink. There is something different in her eyes.

“It’s all a game,” I say finally, keeping my voice low. “Just like this.”

Something in her shifts. The smile she puts on is professional. Polished. But it doesn’t reach her eyes.

My words settle like a stale meal in my gut. That damn kiss.

“Of course,” she replies. “How silly of me to forget.”

I feel a gut-wrenching sting. Fuck.

Why do I feel this way?

“We should leave,” Olivia says as she downs the last of her drink.

I nod in response feeling fucked up than I know I should.

Phase one: complete.

And yet, I feel hollow. Like I’ve lost something I hadn’t realized I was holding.

This is just a game, I tell myself.

But why in hell doesn't it feel like it?