The return of the Heiress
He pulled me into a hug then, and I let him, my face resting stiffly against his shoulder, my eyes wide open and cold over his back, staring at the still water of the pond.
“It’s real,” he murmured into my hair, his arms tight. “It’s finally real.”
“Tomorrow night, then,” I said, my voice muffled against his shirt. “Seven o’clock. Don’t be late.”
I pulled away, giving his hand a final, fake-squeeze before turning toward my car. I walked away, feeling the heat of his triumphant gaze on my back.
The performance was over. The trap was set.
I got into my car, locked the doors, and finally let the mask shatter. I rubbed my hands over my face, my skin crawling from his touch.