Not a chance

Dahlia

It was finally the diner. My eyes scanned the room looking to see anything unusual but never saw one.

I sat to Rafe’s right, my fingers lightly resting near my crystal water goblet. The small employee badge with Orin’s young face stamped beside my father’s corporate title was currently tucked safely inside the lining of my leather clutch, resting on my lap like a loaded pistol.

Across the long expanse of mahogany, Orin sat cutting his meat with deliberate, aggressive cuts. His fork scraped against porcelain with a sound that made my teeth ache. At the head of the table sat Maelis Hollis. She hadn't touched a single morsel on her plate. Her pale grey eyes remained fixed on me, unblinking, heavy with that ancient, rotting hatred that had nearly made her faint the night before.

"You're remarkably quiet tonight, Miss Mercer," Orin drawled, setting his knife down with a loud clack. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, his dark eyes glittering with malicious amusement.

"Yesterday you had plenty of quick little remarks about power and subtlety. Did the estate's atmosphere finally manage to intimidate you?"

I didn't let my expression flicker. I picked up my wine glass, taking a measured sip of the deep cabernet. "I was simply admiring the architecture, Mr. Hollis. It takes a remarkable amount of effort to make a home feel so much like a tomb."

Orin’s jaw tightened, a sharp, ugly flash of irritation cutting through his smirk. "Careful, darling. People who insult this house usually end up finding out how deep the foundation goes."

"Orin," Rafe’s voice cut through the air like a sheet of ice sliding over stone.

He didn't raise his voice or even stop buttering a small piece of warm bread. But the single word carrying his low, dangerous cadence made Orin snap his mouth shut, his chest rising in a sharp, agitated breath.

Underneath the table, out of sight from both Orin and Maelis, Rafe’s hand moved.

His long fingers slid over the fabric of my silk skirt, wrapping firmly around my knee. The sudden, searing heat of his palm against my skin made my pulse spike into my throat. I froze, my hand tightening around the stem of my glass until my knuckles turned white.

He wasn't grabbing me out of anger. His thumb began a slow, deliberate sweep across the side of my leg in a casual, intimate gesture meant to look, to anyone watching from a distance, like a man anchoring his lover. It was part of the show. Part of the absurd, three-million-dollar performance to prove to his hostile family that I was hopelessly, irrationally bound to him.

Selling the illusion. That was the deal.

Except my traitorous body didn't care about the contract. Where his thumb traced fire through my thin dress, my skin prickled with instant, electric friction. A tight, aching knot formed in the pit of my stomach, making it nearly impossible to draw a clean breath. I hated him for it. I hated that even while my mind was racing through strategies to expose whatever secret link bound Orin to my father, my blood was singing from the touch of Rafe’s hand.

"Eat your dinner, Orin," Rafe said smoothly, his thumb still making slow, suffocating circles against my inner thigh, pushing higher by a fraction of an inch. "Or go to your quarters. Dahlia didn't come here to be interrogated by someone who still relies on his trust fund to buy his suits."

Orin’s face turned a dangerous, mottled red. "You think you're so untouchable, don't you, Rafe? You bring a stray into our mother's dining hall, treat her like royalty, and act like we don't know what you're really doing." He leaned forward, pointing a heavy finger across the table. "She’s a fake. She doesn't give a damn about you."

"She’s currently sitting at my side while you sit alone," Rafe replied softly, his voice dripping with a sweet, lethal friendliness. "I'd say that makes her far more loyal than anyone else at this table."

"Enough," Maelis whispered.

Her voice wasn't loud, but the single word brought a dead, suffocating weight back down upon the room.

Maelis slowly placed her hands flat against the mahogany table. She didn't look at Orin. She kept her grey eyes locked onto mine, the hatred in them cold, refined, and absolute.

"Rafe," the old woman said, her tone brittle as dried leaves. "Send this girl away. Pay her whatever foolish price you agreed upon, and throw her out of my sight."

Rafe’s hand on my thigh didn't pull away. Instead, his grip tightened, his fingers pressing into my flesh with possessive, unyielding pressure.

"No, Grandmother," Rafe said gently, almost affectionately, as if declining a simple invitation to tea. "Dahlia stays. In fact, she’ll be attending the autumn gala with me this Saturday."

Maelis’s chest heaved once. A terrible, sharp tremor passed through her frail shoulders. "You are playing with fire, boy. You think you are controlling this, but you are bringing a curse back under this roof."

"Then let it burn," Rafe whispered back, a slow, terrifying smile tilting his lips.

Maelis didn't say another word. She pushed her chair back with a harsh scrape, stood up without assistance, and walked out of the hall, her velvet skirt sweeping the floor like a shroud. Orin glared at us both, threw his napkin into his half-eaten plate, and followed his grandmother into the dark corridor, slamming the heavy double doors behind them.

The echo of the slam died away, leaving only the sound of rain beating against the glass.

The moment we were alone, I yanked Rafe’s hand off my thigh and stood up so fast my chair nearly tipped over.

"Touch me like that again," I rasped, my chest heaving as the adrenaline finally flooded my system, "and I’ll drive a steak knife through your hand."

Rafe didn't look offended. He picked up his wine glass, taking a calm sip, his dark eyes tracking every panicked breath I took.

"It was a good performance, Dahlia," he murmured softly, his tone warm, friendly, and utterly infuriating. "Orin was furious. Grandmother was terrified. You handled yourself like a queen."

"I am not your show pony, Rafe!" I hissed, stepping closer to the head of the table, leaning over him. "Your hand was three inches from my groin! Is that part of the three-million-dollar package, or do you just enjoy pushing me until I snap?"

Rafe set his glass down. He didn't rise. He simply tilted his head back, looking up at me with that dark, romantic gaze that made my skin prickle.

"Your heart was beating so hard I could feel it through your dress, sweetheart," he whispered, his eyes dropping to the pulse fluttering wildly in my throat. "Don't pretend it was all anger. You didn't pull away until they left the room."

The truth of his words hit me like a slap to the face. The shock and pain of my own body's betrayal burned in my chest. I hated him. I hated how easily he dismantled my control, how effortlessly he turned my own physical reactions into evidence against me.

"You're a sick man," I breathed.

"And you're a liar, matter of fact, you love it." he replied softly, standing up slowly. He towered over me, his broad frame blocking out the light of the crystal chandelier. He reached out, his long fingers carefully tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. The touch was so gentle, so devastatingly soft, it made my eyes sting. "But you're my liar for the next eighty-eight days. Get some sleep, Dahlia. Saturday night is going to be very long."

He turned and strolled out of the dining room, leaving me alone in the vast, cold space.

I stood there for a long moment, my hands shaking against my sides.

Then I reached into my clutch and pulled out the old employee badge. I stared at Orin’s young face, then at my father’s company name printed right beside him.

Orin hadn't just known my father. He had worked inside his company before it fell apart eight years ago.

I tucked the badge back into my bag and walked toward the grand staircase. I needed to reach the third-floor study. I needed to break Rule One.

As I turned the corner of the second-floor corridor, a figure stepped out from the shadows near the grand clock.

I gasped, taking a sharp step back.

Standing in front of me was a woman. She wore a floor-length scarlet dress that clung to her curves like blood. Her dark hair fell in soft, glamorous waves over her shoulders, and her lips were painted a deep, lethal red.

She didn't look like a servant or a relative. She looked like money and screamed, old power, and dangerous intimacy.

She looked at me, her eyes sweeping down my silk dress with quiet, experienced judgment, before a smooth, cruel smile spread across her face.

"So," the woman in red murmured, her voice dripping with liquid silk as she stepped closer. "You're the little stray Rafe bought to replace me."