Chapter 36: Dance of Deception

The gala was a beautiful, gilded cage, and Anton felt the bars closing in. The encounter with the photographer had left him raw, the phantom imprint of Sabe’s hand on his head a brand that pulsed with every beat of his heart. They had drifted to the edge of the dance floor, a temporary refuge from the relentless social current. A slow, sweeping waltz began, the string quartet pouring a river of sound into the opulent room.

Sabe’s hand was back on his back, a formal, guiding pressure this time. “We should dance,” he said, his voice low. “It keeps us moving, makes us part of the scenery. And it’s a good place to talk without being overheard.”

It was a tactical decision. Pure operational logic. But as Sabe’s other hand took his, as they fell into the basic, box-step frame of the waltz, logic evaporated. The space between them, so carefully maintained all evening, collapsed into the intimate geography of the dance.

Anton was lead, his years of mandatory cotillion and charity balls taking over. Sabe followed with a natural, fluid grace that spoke of a different kind of training—one that involved adapting to another’s rhythm, predicting their movements, becoming an extension of their will. They moved as one, a single entity gliding through the sea of other couples. The glittering room, Evelyn’s speech, the looming threat—it all receded, muted by the simple, profound fact of their bodies in motion.

“You’re staring,” Sabe murmured, his gaze fixed over Anton’s shoulder, ever the watchful sentinel.

“I’m assessing my partner’s form,” Anton replied, his voice a low thrum. “It’s passable.”

A flicker of a smile touched Sabe’s lips. “High praise.”

They turned, a slow, graceful revolution. The world spun, a blur of light and color, with Sabe as his still, solid center. Anton could feel the heat of him through the layers of their clothes, the steady, reliable strength in his frame. This was different from the protective clutch by the flowers. This was a sustained, deliberate intimacy, a conversation without words.

“This charade,” Anton began, his voice dropping even lower, meant only for Sabe. “The devoted couple. You play the part a little too well.”

Sabe’s hand tightened almost imperceptibly on his. “It’s the role. You of all people should understand performance.”

“Is it?” Anton challenged softly, his eyes searching Sabe’s averted face. “When you pulled me away from the photographer… that wasn’t in the script. That was… instinct.”

Sabe’s jaw tightened. He executed a perfect turn, leading Anton with a subtle pressure. “The script is survival. My instincts are tuned to that frequency. Nothing more.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Sabatine,” Anton whispered, the name a deliberate, intimate weapon.

That got his attention. Sabe’s eyes snapped to his, and for the first time all night, he truly looked at him. The storm in them was no longer distant; it was here, in the space between their faces, crackling with the unsaid. The music swelled, a romantic, aching crescendo that felt like it was scoring the end of the world.

“You taught me well,” Sabe replied, his voice rough-edged, stripped of its professional veneer.

The words were a confession and an accusation. You taught me to feel this. You, with your unwavering trust, with your cracked voice thanking me, with your body leaning into mine as if it belonged there. You taught me to want this, and now it’s the most dangerous vulnerability we have.

The dance was no longer a cover. It was a battlefield. Every point of contact—Sabe’s hand in his, the other firm on his back, the brush of their thighs—was a skirmish. The waltz was their coded language, the 1-2-3 rhythm a countdown to something neither of them could control.

Anton’s breath hitched. He was drowning in the grey of Sabe’s eyes, in the raw honesty he found there. The carefully constructed walls of ‘Alistair Finch’ crumbled to dust. He was just Anton, and the man holding him was the only real thing left in a universe of lies.

“When this is over…” Anton started, the future a terrifying, hopeful chasm.

He never finished.

A tiny, high-frequency chime, inaudible to anyone else, sounded in Sabe’s hidden earpiece. It was a sound Anton had come to dread—the sound of the world crashing back in.

Sabe’s body went rigid. The connection between them shattered, replaced by the icy focus of the operative. His eyes glazed over, listening to a voice only he could hear.

“Say nothing,” Sabe murmured, his lips barely moving, his face a mask of casual calm. But the hand on Anton’s back was now a steel bar, ready to shove him into motion. “We have sixty seconds. Rico’s warning. Evelyn’s security has facial recognition running on the periphery feeds. They just flagged an anomaly. They’re re-running the check on ‘Alistair Finch.’ They’ll have a negative in less than a minute.”

The romantic spell of the waltz evaporated, replaced by the cold sweat of pure adrenaline. The music, now, sounded like a funeral dirge.

“The west service entrance,” Sabe continued, his voice a monotone instruction as he guided them smoothly towards the edge of the floor. “It leads to the kitchens. There’s a loading bay, a van scheduled for linen pickup in five minutes. That’s our exit.”

“How do you know that?” Anton asked, his own mind scrambling to catch up.

“I memorized the blueprints and the staff roster for the day. Contingency.” He said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. And for him, it was.

They broke from the dance as the song ended, applauding politely with the rest of the crowd. Sabe’s hand was back on his back, but the touch was different now—urgent, propelling.

“Don’t run. Walk. Breathe. You’re just a couple getting some air.” Sabe steered them towards a draped archway that led away from the main ballroom.

As they passed a towering ice sculpture, Anton caught their reflection—a handsome, anonymous couple in black tie, their faces a careful study in boredom. But beneath the surface, he saw the truth: his own wide, terrified eyes, and Sabe’s face, a masterpiece of controlled stillness that hid a mind calculating trajectories and threats.

They slipped through the archway into a quieter corridor. The sounds of the gala faded, replaced by the distant clatter of pans and the shout of a chef. The service entrance was just ahead, a heavy, grey door with a push-bar.

Sabe stopped, pulling Anton into a shallow alcove housing a fire extinguisher. He pressed him against the wall, his body shielding him from the view of the corridor, just as he had shielded him from the glass in the server room. His eyes were locked on the service door.

“When I say go, we move. Fast and quiet. Straight to the van. Don’t look back.”

Anton could only nod, his heart hammering against his ribs. The dance was over. The deception was blown. All that was left was the running.

He looked at Sabe, at the sharp line of his profile, the absolute concentration. The man who had just held him in a waltz was now a weapon poised to strike.

“Sabe,” he whispered.

Sabe’s eyes flicked to his, a question in them.

“Thank you,” Anton said. “For the dance.”

A fraction of the tension left Sabe’s shoulders. He gave a single, sharp nod. Then, his gaze returned to the door, his body coiling like a spring.

“Go.”

The dance of deception was over. The flight for their lives had begun.

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