DRESS CODE: CONFIDENCE - DONE

CHAPTER ONE - “THE ENTRANCE FEE” - DONE

The airport shuttle door shut behind me, the sound felt too final for comfort, but was I about to let that bother me? No sir-ree, Bob. The library rose ahead like something out of a secret society’s daydream… not a palace, not a mansion, but a huge expanse that was too well-kept for public access. There was symmetry in everything and everywhere my eye dared skim over. The hedges, the lamps, even the silence felt perfectly serene. It was the kind of order that made you feel like one wrong step might rearrange the whole picture.

At the security point, I smiled like a woman who belonged.

“Name?”

“Bradshaw.” I offered with a practiced casualness that rolled off my tongue smooth as honey. The big, burly man with the crooked nose, one that had surely been reset more than a couple of times, didn’t even notice when he immediately started tapping against the tablet he held. “Monica.”

The glow from the tablet made his expression unreadable until he finally gave a crisp nod, followed by a suddenly welcoming smile that changed the man’s whole countenance. Not that he looked any less intimidating; the strength was palpable through the expensive, tailored uniform fitting bulges of muscles. He had shoulders like a doorframe and that no-nonsense kind of jaw that suggested he could handle any trouble if anyone dared start some.

“Certainly, sign right here, Ms. Bradshaw.”  I scribbled my finger across the screen and reminded myself to breathe naturally. “You’re up the west wing stairs. I’ll have someone bring your bag.”

With a wave of his hand, another man, same uniform, less fearsome face, came along to escort me to my room. All professional like. Garment bag in one hand, he didn’t even react to the wobbling and squeaking from my bum-wheeled, rickety suitcase across the smooth stone floor. There was no small talk, which suited me fine… I wasn’t particularly in the mood for polite conversation about the weather or if I was looking forward to the night ahead.

I hadn’t known what to expect; in truth, I still didn’t, but the wide corridor opening into a high-arched hall shouldn’t have been far from my imagination when I learned the place was located in the English countryside. It smelled faintly of old books and rain. The servant… or security, I still wasn’t sure which to consider him, walked me past the first staircase, then up a second one, a distance down the hall. Soft lamplight, worn rugs, and brass polished railings showed the place was cared for but not overly pretentious. It felt comfortable but steeped in history and prosperity; a wealth built over centuries, not anything akin to even the grandest homes in America.

The faint smell of lemon polish and something floral, lilies perhaps, greeted me on the third floor, like old money trying to disguise itself as dust. I trailed behind, resisting the urge to cast dubious glances at the row of gilded framed portraits lining the wall. I couldn’t help the feeling of unease that perhaps they were watching and judging my right to be in their long-dead presence.

“Ahem.” The quiet sound was enough to snap me out of my eerie thoughts.

“Oh…”

The man stood beside an open door, posture stiff, his eyes straight ahead, as if he was trained to avoid eye contact at all costs. That, however, didn’t stop him from stepping aside for me to enter, nor silently coming in and leaving after setting my simple luggage inside.

Everything looked inviting and safe; whether that was true or false was anyone’s guess. I certainly couldn’t fathom an answer. But the carved four-poster bed, velvet curtains, and crackling fireplace seemed to call out for my surrender to the intimate surroundings. A window overlooked the courtyard below, and a single rose sat in a teacup on the dresser, like a secret left on purpose.  Everything had its place, not too extravagant, but thoughtful. But the carpet was too soft and the light too warm for me to trust. I felt as if I needed to disturb something just to see if anyone would notice.

I toed off my boots, scuffed and faded from years of wear, before flipping open my bag and watching a light puff of dust leap into the fading sunlight as if it had been holding its breath. I spied myself in the vanity mirror as I turned, noting the flash of travel fatigue, curiosity, and the faintest curl of amusement tugging at the corner of my mouth.

“Well, Monica…” I conspired softly, “Guess you’ve officially made it.”

My gown waited in its garment bag, hung from the wardrobe door where the servant left it, teal silk gleaming faintly in the firelight. I poured myself a drink from a decanter; sherry, sweet and older than my best lie, while staring at the identity I would slip on for the night’s dalliance. There was an art to dressing like you’ve always been invited.  This was more than a disguise; it was a translation… the beginning of my statement that would last me through the next few days of my stay.

The private bath attached to my suite was the perfect opportunity to linger while getting ready. I let the shower run a bit too long. The warm water soothed my anticipation, allowing me to unwind and prepare mentally for the evening ahead. Yet, the closer I got to the hour of my performance, the more excited I became.

By the time the fabric slid cool over my skin, it fit like a deal struck under questionable terms; perfect, but temporary. The story of my life. I smoothed the fabric over my hips; smooth, expensive, almost respectful enough to make me forget what lengths I’d gone to to obtain it. The color deepened when I moved — ocean where the shadows caught, and glass in the flickering flames. A pair of strappy heels disappeared beneath its length, and gold accents cuffed my arm and glinted on my fingers. I applied a delicate mask of make-up and teased my hair just so… leaving nothing to chance before finally adding the earrings I’d pawned twice before and bought back once.

When I finally stepped back to evaluate my reflection, the woman staring back wasn’t the same that walked past security those hours ago. I looked like I was meant to be in that building, maybe even that party. Maybe. I fluffed my curls one more time, and a smile spread across my face, the same one I always wore before walking into a con. I gave one last look and one last rehearsed lie behind that grin…

“If anyone asks, I belong here… if no one asks, even better.”

When I walked out, only the fiction I meant to be existed.


~~~~~~⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️~~~~~~~

Descending back the way I came gave me a bit more opportunity to appreciate what I had walked into fully. I let my hand trail across the bannister, my dress catching and releasing the light with every step. Heads turned, but not many lingered. It was better that way. I wanted to get the lay of the land, so to speak, before being drawn into some pointed conversation.

The first two floors of the complex stretched out like a maze of vaulted ceilings and dark-wood reading rooms. There was a trail of laughter spilling down the hall and the noise of the party rising like a heat that perfected the art of drawing this moth to its flame.

It was a different world in that part of the complex. The ballroom was everything the rest of the estate pretended not to be: grand, golden, and just a bit smug. Candles floated in cut-crystal chandeliers that sparkled like a bribe, and the crowd below them glittered even harder. The dim lighting cast a stunning spectacle with rich, deep hues of amber and gleaming glass. The low hum of a string quartet invited couples to glide gracefully over the polished marble dance floor. At the same time, intricate floral arrangements added a touch of romance to the opulent table settings. Waiters in dark vests and bowties moved like clockwork… polished, practiced, and slipped through the crowd with the kind of ease that comes from knowing you’re invisible until someone needs you.

I stepped through it all like I’d been doing it for years. Acting like I’d been bored there before. Steady steps, easy smiles… that trick of looking past people instead of at them so that they assumed I was important. Smile just enough. Nod like the champagne’s better than it actually is. Pretend that my shoes don’t hurt. No one questioned it. Why would they? No one checked invitations. Just posture. Just presence. If confidence were currency, I could finally pay rent.

The faint clink of glass echoed off the old stone, weaving through laughter and the murmur of too many introductions. I caught snippets of conversation, polished accents, gaiety, and the kind of gossip born in privilege and secrecy. A woman in pearls brushed past, murmuring something polite. I nodded, lips curved, and I wondered which of us was pretending the hardest.

I slipped a flute off a passing tray, my fingers itching for a distraction, while taking in the scene… tuxedos, posh gowns, and polished charm everywhere I looked. Everyone pretending to enjoy themselves, everyone pretending not to be watching everyone else. Maybe I was jaded, maybe too distrusting. Naw! Every conversation around me was currency, a tell.

Someone asked what I do for a living. I tell him I’m in acquisitions. Technically, it’s true, depending on the day. He laughs a little too loudly, and I take a sip of my drink instead of explaining. A lady in red chiffon approaches next.

“So what brings you all the way here?” Her tone’s pleasant, eyes curious. Perhaps more than I’d like.

“Free champagne and bad decisions,” I said, flashing a grin before she could decide whether I was serious or not. Her laugh followed me when I stepped away.

Some eyes followed me, although I pretended not to notice most. I’m sure most didn’t know why. Intrigue was better when it looked like a coincidence. Some people obviously knew each other; there were histories, and perhaps some legends that served them well. At that moment, it was my goal to figure out just who thought they were the sharpest person in that room… and how it could be useful to me.

CHAPTER TWO - “THE PLAYBOY'S HAND” - DONE

Perhaps it was the candlelight from above centered over the dance floor that made me miss the bar, half hidden in the dark towards the back of the ballroom. Once spotted, though, I made instantly for the somewhat shadowed position.
It was more honest there. Perhaps the only sincere thing in the entire room. People are their truest selves with a glass in hand.

Rows of bottles lined the back wall like colored glass trophies, each catching the chandelier light and throwing it back in pieces. Everything else shimmered too much… sequins, laughter, fake charm. A sea of people who practiced their smiles in better mirrors than I’d ever owned. Or at least, pretending to be more expensive than they were. I could relate.

There were very few this far back, and even less lingering. Most seemed to prefer mixing and mingling where they could see the faces of those they spoke with in clearer light. I drifted toward the counter, letting my eyes flick over the crowd like I was searching for someone. Really, I was just looking for the safest lie to stand beside. Half a hunt for something interesting, the other half for some sort of trouble.

The bartender was busy assisting a waiter at the other end of the bar when I approached, giving me undisturbed moments to observe and take stock. And I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised at recognizing someone at that gala. Rich, privileged, elite… all perfectly summed up what everyone knew about one Damon Jebs: the perfect image of cultivated boredom, if someone was looking. I knew the name and the face. Everyone did, if they read certain gossip columns or knew which yachts not to get invited onto. The name floated around every conversation I’d ever overheard about money: a whispered combination of arrogance and disinterest. He wore his wealth like armor, subtle but unmistakable… tailored navy suit, no tie, a wristwatch worth more than my entire apartment deposit. Confidence like that didn’t come in a bottle. It came from never being told no. It sent a chill down my spine. Maybe both a warning and a dare.

He stood alone, elbows on the counter, jacket sharp enough to cut glass, the kind of man who looked like he’d been born leaning against something expensive. His expression was bland, but that did nothing to detract from his handsomeness. In fact, his aloofness triggered something primal. He was half-turned away from the crowd, detached from it. Like he had little interest in watching a play he’d already seen far too many times before. To any sane woman it would be a red flag. Sadly, or coincidentally, no one had ever called me sane.

I took a breath, undaunted, and slid into the open space beside him, just close enough to smell the faintest trace of bergamot and scotch. My heart was pounding, sure, but I didn’t need to let him know that… the trick was to move like I belonged there, to continue my charade until the wheels fell off.

“You don’t seem impressed by much.”

I leaned my hip against the bar, waving a finger in the direction of the bartender, who finally noticed me.

Damon didn’t look at me right away… just swirled the amber in his glass, eyes fixed on the reflection in the mirrored shelves as I ordered a whiskey.

“Comes with buying everything too young,” he said. His voice was smooth, faintly amused, and just this side of being tired. “Ruins the novelty.”

“Tragic…” I smirked, repeating his action by watching him through the mirrors. I arched my brow. “Must be awful, drowning in options.”

“It is.” He finally turned his head, eyes a shade that made the word expensive feel small. “Takes the fun out of pretending.”

“What exactly are you pretending?”

“Interest. Enjoyment. Whatever gets me through the next toast.” He tipped his glass toward the crowd. “That any of this still feels new…”

I giggled, maybe a touch too honestly. It wasn’t easy to sit there and not feel affected by his magnetism. It was there, in the richness of his voice and the sly tilt at the corner of his mouth.  The gutter that was my mind could have made a few suggestions if I thought I had a chance of shocking him. I knew his type… I played with his type… all raw arrogance and danger… the sort that made good girls blush and bad girls thirst. The kind of man who didn’t have to ask for attention because the room was already watching to see if he’d bother to give it. Luckily, my drink arrived, keeping me from evaluating those thoughts any further.

“Maybe it’s too many toasts through amber-tinted snifters… could be clouding your judgement.”

His gaze flicked over me, slow and deliberate, “Doubt it… take you, for instance, you smile like you’re rehearsing.”

“Don’t tell me I wasted so much effort…”

“At the very least, I’m convinced you know how to work a room.”

I smiled over the rim of my glass, “You think I’m working it?”

“I think you don’t miss much,” he said, tilting his drink lazily. “And that makes two of us.”

“Sorry, you already gave up the game… you’re only pretending to notice.”

His mouth curved almost into a smirk. “Oh come now, you’re not here just for the views… and certainly not for the company.”

“Oh, bother…” I murmur in a teasing southern American accent, letting my eyes drift over him slowly in the same manner he’d just done, “Some of the views are quite nice, I’ll let you know… I’ll even toast you to that.”

“So you can steal my gimmick?”

“Everyone here’s pretending they belong…” My grin is still genuine, a dimple denting my left cheek. “Maybe you’ve just been at it longer and so are better at it.”

That earned a faint, crooked smile. “No,” he said. “You just happen to be better at it.”

My smile faltered before I could stop it. He didn’t say it cruelly, and maybe that’s what threw me off. It was just observation, plain and clean… the kind that hits harder because it’s true. He’d seen straight through me with less effort than it took to blink. He didn’t push, though, just waited, watching me with eyes that were suddenly too shrewd instead of alluring… definitely more dangerous.
I was left with a decision… laugh or lie. I took a sip of my drink and shrugged.

“My editor insisted I come…”

His gaze slid downward… not leering, but deliberate… lingering just long enough to make his point. “Editor, hmm?” he asked. His voice was smooth enough to belong to a man who’d never had to raise it.

“Networking… you know how it is.”

“I’m sure you’ve got your credentials tucked somewhere in that dress of yours. Can’t imagine where…” He paused, eyes narrowing slightly in mock consideration. “Well…” a faint smile curved at the corner of his mouth, “maybe I can imagine one or two places.”

I met his eyes, steady, unflinching. “Nothing like a little mystery.”

“Guess you’ll fit right in.”

He raised his glass in a small salute, but the look behind it wasn’t so polite. It lingered… a slow appraisal that was equal parts dare and invitation. His voice dropped, quieter now. “Just don’t mistake curiosity for kindness.”

That one caught me. The kind of warning that sounds like a promise if you’re not careful.

“I’ll risk it,” My chin tilted as I spoke. “Kindness is for kittens.”

My fingers itched for a cigarette… a cigar… something else to do with my hands. I gripped and polished off the last of my drink.

He tilted his head, studying me like I’d just said something more interesting than I meant to. “You don’t actually believe half the things you say, do you?”

“Oh, I don’t.”

“No?”

“Belief’s overrated,” I said, setting my empty glass on the bar. “Conviction gets better results.”

“That right?”

“It got me in here.”

For a moment, he just looked at me, the corner of his mouth twitching. Something like admiration or amusement flickered across his face.

Briefly, the crowd’s noise filled the silence between us… music, laughter, the clink of glass against glass. Neither of us moved to leave.

He was the one to speak first. “You ever feel like everyone around you is auditioning?”

“Usually,” I said, softly, thoughtfully. “The trick is knowing who’s casting.”

“And you?”

“Still deciding if the role’s worth it.”

That got a real smile, small but genuine. Then he leaned in, his shoulder brushing mine, his voice just above the hum of conversation.

“Careful,” he said. “You’re looking for trouble.”

“Careful,” I echoed, locking gazes with him. “I don’t refund poor decisions.”

That earned a real laugh—warm, surprised, the kind that sounded like it had been a while.

There was another pause, with just an echo of a conversation that hadn’t quite finished.

“Try not to drown in all your options…”

I teased, already walking away before he had a chance to add anything more. But for a few steps, I could feel his gaze linger… sharp and assessing, the kind of look that could easily become habit.

CHAPTER THREE - "THE GENTLEMAN'S TELL” - DONE

I took some moments to mingle a bit, size up the crowd a little more, and assess Damon’s dispassionate assessment of the gathering at large. I couldn’t exactly say he was wrong… but knowing so little about him left me with doubts about the soundness of his judgement. Besides… wasn’t he the overpampered playboy, the self-proclaimed pretender?

I smirked to myself and considered pivoting back in his direction just to see what else he might say… curiosity versus kindness indeed. But instead, I strolled in the opposite direction, needing a pause. The farther I got from the main crowd, the chatter dulled to a soft hum, and it slowly became easier to breathe.

“Penny for your thoughts…”

A cello rendition of “Play with Fire” hummed softly in the background, but succeeded in muffling my startled squeal when a bubble-filled flute was abruptly held before me.

“Sorry,” A man chuckled as he slipped further around in front of my path. My fingers slipped around the delicate glassware without thought. “To free champagne and excellent decisions.”

I blinked, caught off guard, then raised my brow. “That’s oddly specific.”

“Not really…” he murmured, smiling like someone who remembered too much. “You said it earlier… or something close to it. Thought I’d see if you meant it…”

My head tilts to the side, uncertainty lighting in my eyes, but the tug of a smile still appears before I laughed outright, the sound spilling out easier than it probably should have.

“You make a habit of listening to strangers' conversations?”

The man looked nice… the sort of nice that usually meant harmless. Clean lines, soft colors, the easy posture of someone who didn’t need attention to feel comfortable in a room. His tuxedo was what one might expect at an event such as this, perfectly respectable. There was a calmness about him, something steady in the way he smiled. Like he meant it. He didn’t look like the kind of man who made trouble. Too kind-eyed, too unassuming. The sort of person you’d trust to water your plants, not burn your house down. More like a break… a pause between storms. Perfectly, sensibly ordinary.

“Only the ones trying not to be heard.” The line hit a little too close. His tone stayed soft, but something about the precision in it told me this wasn’t just idle charm. “I’m Wesely…”

My lips curled slightly, “Ofie…” I offered without thinking, “and how do you judge what a person wants heard, Wesely? If they speak aloud, I always assume it’s for context.”

He grinned again, taking a sip from a flute of his own while his other hand slipped into his pocket. Where we stood in the room, it was simply a matter of shifting his weight to one side, and he leaned carelessly against the wall. He looked too comfortable for a place like that, too sharp in a quiet sort of way. A few beats pass, and he shrugs… as if he knew all the answers to the world’s darkest secrets.

“Depends on who’s doing the talking. Some words are spoken… some shown. Some prefer being read… others… well, they like to be believed.”

I tilted my head. “And you?”

He smirked, low and private. “Depends on the night.”

Another bubble of laughter erupted. I was both startled and a little impressed. “You flirt like a man who annotates.”

“Only the good stories,” he said. “And the ones that shouldn’t be shelved.”

His voice dropped just enough for me to catch the undertone… suggestive, intentional. Or was I imagining that? I felt like there was meaning behind that, heavy as heat, but when I met his gaze, his smile was innocent again. Too innocent.

I shook my head but felt strangely at ease. “So you change words to your understanding… or hopes? I’m fairly sure the word I used earlier was bad… bad decisions.”

“Symantics.”

“Sounds suspiciously revised to fit the version of me you’ve already crafted in your mind,” I said, giving him a doubtful expression while he just grinned like some version of the Cheshire cat. “And what do you suppose about this?” I nod towards the drink I held, his brow shooting up. “Should I worry you’ve doctored this to your liking, too?”

He slipped the glass from my fingers, slow and deliberate, then sipped, never breaking eye contact.

“If I wanted to change your mind,” his voice was low, discerning, “I wouldn’t start with the drink.”

“Good,” I said, matching his tone. “I hate wasted effort.”

That earned me a real smile… sharp and knowing, the kind that could cut if you weren’t careful. The exact kind I would never expect from a guy like him. He handed back the glass, his fingers brushing mine ever so gently.

“Then here’s to efficiency.” He grinned.

The rim of the glass brushed my lip, still warm from where he’d drunk. The champagne was flat now, but the moment wasn’t.

There was nothing hurried about him; his posture stayed relaxed, every line of him unbothered… like he knew people watched and he simply didn’t care. Or maybe that was the point. He wore respectability like a second skin, like he knew every angle of a room and the way attention shifted through it.

“So what is it that you do… besides redefine a woman’s words to fit your own narrative?”

“Run a little bookstore… nothing too harrowing,” he grins again, “I’m partial to the rare editions. Some look ordinary until you read the margins… that’s where all the secrets hide.”

The way he said it made my skin hum. I didn’t miss the look he gave me either, half assessment, half invitation. But an invitation to what?

“Dangerous habit,” I murmured, “Some stories bite back.”

He grinned, “Then it’s a good thing I’m vaccinated.”

I snorted into my drink, trying not to choke on the surprise.

“You don’t exactly sound like the respectable type, Wesely…”

“Ohh… but I am.” He said smoothly. “My parents have a plaque somewhere that proves it. They’ll never know otherwise.”

“So dutiful…” I smirked. “Ever thought rebellion might look good on you?”

“I’ve been told.” His eyes flicked toward me with a slow, amused drag. “Usually right before someone regrets saying it.”

“A threat?”

“More of a promise.”

The laugh caught in my throat before I could stop it, and a little shiver trailed down my spine. He caught the pause… saw it for what it was… and smiled like he’d just won a small victory. Maybe I’d underestimated his edges.

“More caution thrown to the margins, it would seem.”

“You’re a quick study, Ms. Bradshaw… assuming that’s your real name.”

Every nerve fired again, for a different reason. The man might be far more astute than I considered giving him credit for. But I matched his smile.

“Depends who’s asking… and how honest I’m expected to be.”

Our eyes locked; the moment lingered—warm, electric, uncertain.

“So,” he said finally, swirling what was left of his drink, “was it worth the risk?”

“What?”

He motioned lazily between us. “The dress, the drink… the whole evening. Talking to me.”

“I’ll let you know when it’s all said and done.”

“Fair enough.” He raised his glass in a quiet toast before finishing it. “Just don’t make a habit of second-guessing yourself. You wear certainty better than silk.”

I laughed. “I hadn’t realized I’d done that. Are you sure you’re not rewriting my narrative in that head of yours again?”

“Oh, trust me—it’s shaping up quite unexpectedly.”

I shook my head, unable to stop the smile tugging wider. “Do you always talk to strangers like you’ve already dated them?”

“Only the ones who look like they’d make it interesting.”

I drained the rest of my glass, just in time for a passing waiter. “Then consider the mystery preserved,” I said, turning away before he could answer.

His chuckle followed me into the crowd—low, knowing, and a little too pleased with itself.

I didn’t look back. Some games only stayed fun if you left before the score was kept.

CHAPTER FOUR - “THE LOCK WITHOUT A KEY” - DONE

The evening had been one eventful moment after another. But at the moment, all I craved was some peace and quiet. Just a few stolen moments away from the glitz and the glam.

The ballroom disappeared in stages. The clink of fine china and stemware faded before the titillating laughter thinned behind the heavy French doors. The heavy scent of perfumed and cologned men was starkly replaced with hints of nature. Dew-glazed grass and wet stone… perhaps the faint tang of mineral the gardeners bragged about when the sun rose in the mornings. A few braziers lined the edge of the balcony, each flickering brilliantly reddish-orange. Down below, the formal hedges squared along a darkened path I could not make out at that time of night, but the fountain… gushing and blue-tinged, whispered in the moonlight, a silver pool in the darkness.

I hadn’t realized how hard I’d been smiling until my face finally stopped doing it.

Inside, things were staged… beautifully orchestrated, glowing with purpose. Out there, things were more honest. The wind didn’t care if my dress cost rent. The stones didn’t pretend they weren’t cold. The crickets didn’t silence themselves to meet anyone’s expectations.  I placed my palm against the nearest bannister, letting the chill climb into my skin like a warning. It steadied me in a way I let fall aside all night long. The champagne had started to taste like repetition. The compliments inflated. The laughter looped. Performance is easier when you’re not the only one faking it.

I took my time walking the length of the terrace, breathing in the freshness, heels clicking on marble in a melody that only I seemed to hear. My reflection stalked me, dancing across the tall glass doors… teal silk floating like an apparition… giving credence to the woman who appeared to belong. As if posture alone could prove such a declaration.

I didn’t look back into the ballroom. I didn’t have to. I knew the angles. Had lodged all the exits to memory through the night. Habit was a hard thing to break, even when you’re playing pretend.

It wouldn’t be long before I realized I wasn’t the only one avoiding the celebration.

A man stood near the far end with his back to the glint of the party, his figure more a shade carved out of the firelight. What the highlights didn’t show was eaten up by the night, but in no way deprived him of his finesse. Nor motionless. Not in the way a rich man practiced being still when they wanted to be seen, not caring. His calm was intended… like an etching that had been whittled through the years of his life. He looked good at it, easy and mature. In his hand rested a glass… delicate but firm. The type of loose that suggested he didn’t drop things easily.

His shoulders were broad enough to make his jacket earn its keep. His shoes were plain but good… no shine and no showing off. Hair that looked like it might have answered to a comb earlier, but had long since escaped on purpose. There was something quiet about his posture, an elegance that couldn’t be bought or exchanged. He gave the impression that he might slip away without anyone noticing, and a certainty that he would be noticed if he decided not to.

I certainly was finding it difficult to tear my gaze away.

I could have gone back inside. Perhaps I should have. I could have finished my drink like a good guest, found another conversation that only required my false smile and rehearsed laughter, and I could have let the night pass without inviting more socialization. I’d done more than enough already that evening… met new friends… learned more about the library than I ever thought to know about any one place.

There was no need for me to poke a bear.

But I’ve never been paid in wisdom.

“You look like a man who came out here to be left alone.” My voice was soft, meant to only tease the quiet as I closed the distance between myself and the man who didn’t even appear to want company. I stopped at a comfortable distance, several steps, and leaned my elbows upon the stone. Golden flickers teased the rim of his glass. “That usually means you’re the most interesting one in the room.”

His eyes scanned me, gray in that light or something colder, shut off like a locked door.

“There’s no room in question.”

“Then you have little competition.”

“Do you test everyone in that way?”

I tilted my head, “Only the ones who look like they might pass.”

A corner of his mouth acknowledged that without committing to an actual smile. “And if I fail?”

“Then I’ll pretend I was never testing you.”

“You shouldn’t pretend,” his tone was nearly as low as mine… gentle but firm in the dim light. “You’re not good at it.”

That pulled a laugh out of me faster than I planned. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.” It was a flat, no-nonsense reply. It demanded no response… encouraged no argument. He took a small drink, the glass didn’t argue… not like I wanted, but he continued before I could. “You’re too anxious. People who belong don’t stalk the exits.”

I frowned, but I felt the door behind me like a hand along my spine, tickling that itch to run to safety. “Maybe I just like fresh air.”

“Then you’d watch the sky… not the doors.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I certainly hadn’t met, or seen the man all evening. How he should know what I had or hadn’t been doing seemed highly unlikely… and just rather odd.

The silence was filled with the rustling of the fountain while I told myself I was analyzing him, assessing his tone, posture, and the way he picked his words. But the truth hummed under that. He was the kind of attractive that hit me in increments. The way the cord of his neck gleamed and pulsed when he tilted his head, or the way the fire danced in the shadow of his eyes. How his mouth rested, full and well-formed but firm… like a well-made lock. He wasn’t showy like Damon. Not inviting like Wesely. He was attractive like a huge damn problem. My pulse raced wildly contemplating that reality.

The breeze lifted a thread of my hair and laid it against my shoulder. He watched it fall like the room had narrowed until there was only that single movement. I shouldn’t have liked that. The tingles racing through me proved otherwise. I licked my lips slowly, catching his gaze follow that motion as well.
“I didn’t catch your name.”

“I didn’t give it…”

“And you won’t?”

He seemed to hesitate, watching me as if summing up my entire worth in a pause of breath. Why I found myself waiting with my own bated breath seemed ridiculous and downright pitiful.

“Asher. Asher Eames.”

Ah. That earned a flicker of recognition. The name from the whispers I’d caught inside throughout the night. Not the loud, sloppy rumors. You know the ones, the gossip given through smudged lipstick and brand-name speculation. No, not that nastiness, the other kind that travels by eye contact and lowered voices. The softer, realer ones. He was the one with the keys… the man who turned up five or six times a year, wandered the stacks unchecked, and never answered questions. I seemed to be on the receiving end at that very moment. Depending on who you asked, he was either a donor, a problem, or a story the residents liked to tell themselves about to feel interesting.

And here he was.

“They say you practically live here…” I turned my gaze back to the unseen lawn. “You read the books, or just haunt them?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether the person asking wants a tour or a story.”

Curiosity getting the best of me, I turned back to him, a brow arched, a tease of a grin playing at my lips. “What if I want both?”

“Then you’re greedy.”

“Guilty as charged.” I said, “Luckily, greed is my private vice and could be your public service…”

He didn’t answer that with words. His mouth admitted the idea amused him, but only a little. He set his glass on a small stone table with barely a click, then let his hands rest against the banister as if it were an anchor. I tried not to notice the strength I imagined in those long fingers. The silence stretched again.

“I heard there’s a man who never answers questions.”He didn’t even glance over. “But somehow he always gets what he wants… Rumor or invitation?”

“Rumor,” he said, “Invitations are for people who ask permission.”

I scoffed. “Permission is for people who worry about punishment.”

“Punishment is for people who get caught.”

“Is that why you’re out here hiding…”

He looked at me then, properly. Utterly still, precise, with just the tiniest tilt of his head as he turned the words back on me.

“Is that why you don’t?”

Another sharp pulse sliced through me, a sharp traitor’s dance that’s reserved for lines I wish I’d said first. Or perhaps it ran deeper than that. Did I want to be caught? Or better yet, punished? My gaze fell to his fist gently cupping the stone, and I gulped lightly.

This was a bit of a ridiculous conversation. If I even wanted to call it that. The man barely offered any clues to any of my inquiries.

“Fine,” I said, because I hated losing. “Your turn. Ask me something.”

He didn’t hurry. He let the request sit between us until impatience started to nibble and grow teeth.

“What do you call yourself,” he said, “when no one is listening?”

I wrinkled my nose slightly, then smiled like I wasn’t bothered. “Depends who’s asking.”

“I’m asking…” He didn’t sound annoyed. If anything, he sounded like he’d been rewarded for a patience badge in Boy Scouts and never given it up. “I asked who. I want a name.”

“Names are receipts,” I shrugged. “You keep them to prove a purchase.”

“Or a return.”

“I don’t do refunds.”

For a heartbeat, I seemed to have him. Then something shifted behind his pupils, like an unlit room igniting just to let me know it was still smoldering beneath the surface.

“You talk like someone who’s never been wrong.”

“Wrong is so final. I collect mistakes like souvenirs…”

That got me a half-smile with a hint of edge to it.

“You wear confidence like a borrowed coat… wrong color, wrong size, but you’d never admit how ill-fitted it actually is.”

I should have smiled. Or shrugged, praised his poetic side, called him dramatic. Something. Anything. What I actually did was feel heat creep up my neck like I’d been caught with my hand in a cookie jar I was nowhere close to owning.

“You don’t carry a camera.”

“Pardon?”

There was a devilish glint in his eyes. Calculated… judging. “I’m sure an editor would seek some photographic evidence for such a grand event.”

I really didn’t like feeling exposed. And I couldn’t help but wonder again how this man knew stuff about me.

“For someone hiding in the shadows, you sure do get a fountain of information.”

“You look nervous.”

I narrowed my gaze, then shook my head, my hair tossing across my shoulders. “Hardly… whatever you think you know can’t be much.”

He didn’t respond, just left the truth hanging there between us.

“You don’t even bother answering questions… refuse to answer them in fact.”

“I refuse statements more than I refuse questions.”

“That’s hardly a distinction… no difference.”

“It keeps me busy.”

Somewhere inside the ballroom, a ripple of laughter rolled toward the doors and died invisible against the glass. A waiter stepped onto the terrace, took one look at us, and disappeared back. The blaze above Asher stuttered in the wind and righted itself.

“What do you do when you’re here?” I asked. “If you’re not answering questions.”

“Read,” he said, the way a person might say breathe. “Walk.”

“Watch?”

“Sometimes.”

“Steal?”

“Only time,” he said.

“And glances?” I said, because I wanted to see what he did with the accusation.

He let his eyes travel down me precisely once, neither apologizing nor lingering, and came back to my face like that had been the point all along.

“You’re worth a glance.”

“That sounded almost like an answer.”

“You asked almost a question.”

I laughed then, genuinely and out of the box. I hated that he earned it. I liked that he earned it.

“Alright,” I said, setting my glass on the table beside his. The two stems looked like they’d been arranged by a careful hand. “One more. True or false: you’ve already made your mind up about me.”

“True,” he said.

“And?”

“You’re reckless, foolish, and in over your head.”

“That’s rich,” I said. “Coming from a man who lives like a rumor.”

“Rumors are just stories that don’t owe you a source.”

“You ever tried being boring?”

“I am,” he said. “Most of the time.”

I looked at his mouth and quickly looked away. I hated that I didn’t believe him.

“Why are you here,” he asked, “if you hate rooms like that one?”

“Who said I hate them?”

“You left.”

“Maybe I like the part of the party where no one behaves for the camera.”

“Back to your non-existent cameras…”

“Maybe I just stole the invitation…”

He didn’t blink. “That wasn’t a joke.”

“It could be.”

“It wasn’t.” He shifted, not closer, just… different. “You’re not supposed to be here… You’re certainly not Monica.”

That knocked something off the shelf in me. I’d balanced too carefully, and every nerve inside ricocheted. The sound that came out was more anger… parading as laughter.

“You’re not my host.”

“No.”

“So you don’t get to decide who belongs here.”

“I don't,” he said. “But I know the look.”

“What look?”

“The one people wear when they are waiting to be told to leave,” he didn’t drop my gaze now… I felt as if he were digging right into my soul. “And the one they wear when they aren’t going to.”

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. The breeze kept bringing me the smell of manure and cut boxwood. I took a breath that didn’t fix a damn thing.

“I came out for some air,” I mutter, straightening.

“You already took it.”

“Then why have you followed me!?”

He smirked. “I was here first.”

“I suppose you want it back.”

“The air?” He was taunting me now. “No… but the quiet would be nice.”

“Then I’m disrupting you.”

“Only a little.”

“Then I’ve done my job!”

“What job is that?”

“Causing a proportionate amount of annoyance… to the deserving.”

“And I count, hmm?”

“You’re not boring.” I blurted before I could think better of it. “That’s nearly the same thing.”

“A little late to say so… after admitting I’m the most interesting man in the room.”

“I said people who want to be left alone usually are.”

“And you don’t leave them alone.”

“Someone has to keep the averages honest.” I tilted my chin defensively.. “Besides, I’m not the only one watching the exits.”

He let the silence admit I’d got something right. It wasn’t a concession. It was a note in the margin for later.

I should’ve pushed. I should’ve asked for the tour I’d baited him with, played dumb about stacks and permissions, seen how far the rumor stretched when tugged. Instead, I recognized a line in myself I didn’t want to cross yet. I didn’t come out here to hand him the story. I came out to fumble with the lock. That thing was still pretty firmly shut, and I felt raw and unmasked.

“Guess we’ll both stay curious,” I said as if we were on even footing… when that couldn’t be further from the truth. I lifted my glass and finished the last of the warm bubbles, then set the fancy glass beside his with a soft click like a period where a comma could’ve gone.

I stepped past him. He didn’t move to stop me. He didn’t have to. He had the kind of presence that followed without footsteps. And shamefully, I felt the heat of his gaze like none other I’d encountered that night.

“Careful,” he murmured, close enough that his voice threaded through the night and pulled like a damn vice grip. “Curiosity’s the only thing this place kills without evidence.”

It should’ve sounded like a line. It didn’t.

I didn’t turn around. “Good thing I don’t leave fingerprints,” I said, and walked with my head held as high as I could manage.

CHAPTER FIVE - “WHAT THE SILENCE SAID” - DONE

I couldn’t shake the feeling in the pit of my stomach as I stepped back into the ballroom. The noise came from every direction, the strings and brass, the murmur of joyful conversation, and the inebriated laughter all folded together until I couldn’t tell where one stopped and the other started. The lights had been dimmed further, a burnished gold that made everyone look prettier, or maybe just a bit more forgivable. I somehow held a new glass of bubbly even though I had no intention of drinking it. At the very least it would stop the would-be well-wishers from refilling another empty glass. That was what this place's specialty seemed… making things appear in your hand before you could decide if you wanted them at all.

I told myself the shake in my fingers was just the lingering cold. It certainly was not him. Not from the way his voice crawled under my skin and set up camp there. Or how his unnerving knowledge left me shaken.

I moved through the crowd like smoke, offering small smiles that didn’t reach my eyes and silently wishing the knots would subside. Every conversation seemed louder than necessary, every laugh a bit too high. The edges of the room felt sharper, like the walls had shifted closer while I had been outside. How close was I to exposure? What would I do if found out?

Despite the anxiousness, secretly, I could not deny the teensy thrill of excitement as well. He knew… at least a good deal, not all. And there didn’t seem to be anything he could do about it. Hadn’t Wesely hinted at some insider information as well? My cover wasn’t iron-clad… but it was sticking. For now. I could go wallow in worry, or face the challenge head on. There really was no choice in what I would do.

I wasn’t the running-away type.

From somewhere near the dais, I heard someone mention the donors. A toast was rose, a chorus of enthusiastic thank-yous, something I was too far away to catch. Voices were a jumble of boisterous cheers and a few drunken yells. I couldn’t actually admit to being surprised. Drinks had poured freely all night… I was never without a glass of my own and really had no idea how much I had actually ingested. But I felt, mostly, normal. Still, I drifted towards the bar, needing an anchor, or maybe a mirror. I wasn’t sure which. My reflection in the glass looked like a woman who’d just been told a secret I couldn’t repeat.

“Rough night?” a voice asked behind me.

“Define rough,” I said, not bothering to turn.

“Anything that makes you forget where you left that pretty smile of yours.”

I offered the speaker a practiced one on cue, “Found it.”

They laughed, satisfied, and wandered off before they saw it slip again.

The champagne fizzed too vigorously in my glass but that’s where it stayed. The air had grown thick, the kind that feels like it's waiting for something to happen. Or was it just my imagination? Maybe I changed my mind… maybe I did have too much to drink that night. Or maybe it was just the climatic crescendo at the end of an exceptional gala finale. Since I had no prior experience, I could not be any sort of expert on the matter.

Beauty couldn’t stand still forever, that one thing was certain.

I spotted Damon across the room, surrounded by alone in the way men like him are. Wesley was nearby, talking to someone older, gesturing with his glass. Perfectly charming. They both looked unbothered, in their own individual ways. I envied that.

I didn’t even attempt to locate him.

Somewhere in the gallery above, a violin hit a note too high and never seemed to recover. I felt like it sliced right through me. Hauntingly eerie.

The crowd shifted, a ripple of movement towards the center of the floor. People were laughing, clapping. I leaned forward on instinct, trying to see what had drawn their attention. What had he said? Killing curiosity? Another shiver trailed down my spine but I continued moving inward, toward the gathering. Unable to resist the pull.

Then came the first scream. Not terrified, at least not exactly. Just, well, startled. Something bright and authentically human.

“Something’s crawling…” It was a woman’s voice, gasping, shaking her arm forcefully.

At first, I thought it was a trick of the light, that the floor was reflecting off the chandelier… or something else strange. Then a shimmer moved more clearly, a sliver of black across the white marble, twisting like ink come-alive.

Not insects like the woman shouted. No, these were words.

Tiny, perfect words, tumbling across the tiles in a scattered run. Dashing from one side of the room to the other. Around and under tables, the orchestra, up along the walls.

The room fractured into noise, chairs scraping and heels skittering hurriedly across the floor. The instruments screeched to a loud halt. A dozen or more people tried to step away at once, their shock a dance of confusion and anxiety. Someone’s drink crashed near my feet, bubbles fizzing over a fallen “hello”.

I was frozen, my somewhat muddied brain trying to assign logic to something that refused to hold shape. The letters slid underfoot, smearing, then reforming. I blinked while they continued to do their unnatural dance, rearranging themselves like they’d actually heard me thinking.

Are you watching yet?

I couldn’t tell if I imagined it. Was I losing my mind?

Glass cracked under someone’s heel. The words scattered again, breaking apart, then pooling towards the stage as if drawn by gravity or command. My pulse beat too fast, but not from fear. Not yet at least. No, there was something substantial happening. A wild, unthinkable, chaotic thing.

Something was happening. The library wasn’t just a building, and the gala wasn’t just a party.

And I wasn’t supposed to be there.

The crowd swelled towards the exits, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t. A breeze, impossible this far inside, lifted the hem of my gown. I looked down. More words spiraled at my feet, their letters gleaming faintly in black before fading and reforming. Over and over again… blending, merging, taunting.

I had no clue what any of us were going to do…

LOOK:


ROUND 1-DONE

FALSE MOVES - DONE

CHAPTER SIX - "NO SAFE BETS" - DONE

The next day, I was still shaken up a bit about the previous night’s ending. Not that I would find a release for that uneasy energy. The Docents, our apparent hosts, had finally made themselves known and took credit for the unusual activity. Nothing more than an exceptional experience.

“It’s a library,” one of them offered helpfully… cheerfully when I asked. “Of course, there are words.”

Right. Words that skittered up people’s arms and crawled across the floor. Perfectly ordinary.

They added we could leave if we didn’t like it. Which, to me, sounded a lot like… don’t ask because we won’t tell. Or maybe they thought we weren’t ready to hear anything more useful. Either way, it was clear I’d be wasting effort trying to get any answers from any of them.

Despite that, they were quite the merry band of attendants. Smiles a bit too wide and too smooth, promising a day to remember… the kind of generosity and saccharine that would be sure to give you a toothache if you lingered too long absorbing their hospitality.

Not that there were a lot of options. Three activities were set up… three sections to choose from, and from the time the announcement was made and mid-afternoon, the library’s mood had shifted into full-on jubilation. People seemed to laugh louder and talk faster. A return to the excitement from the previous night… before, well, that exceptional experience.

The docents ushered everyone toward ‘activities’ the way a magician invites you to look anywhere but his hands. I wasn’t even sure which group I ended up traveling with or where exactly we were headed. Not until I arrived at section 795. And because curiosity is a habit I stopped pretending to break a long time ago, I passed the threshold without a hint of hesitation.

Well, maybe a tiny bit. I did take a moment to check for slithering fonts… and took another half moment to clock where the next closest exit lay.

Inside, there was a section… a stage disguised to look like a room. Velvet ropes divided spectators from players. Light pooled over the tables like melted gold. The air smelled faintly of bourbon and smugness.

It felt almost like home.

And there, damn near the center of the room, leaning back in a chair as if he’d invented the concept, was Damon.

A little sliver of anticipation raced down my spine as I remembered our exchange from the night before. He had left an impression… but why wouldn’t he? He looked perfectly at ease, the kind of man who didn’t just sit in a room; he commanded its rhythm. Cards in one hand, drink in the other, half a smile caught between amusement and calculation. His charm didn’t demand attention; it drew it in, slow and certain, like gravity with good posture. The man was made to make you forget how to breathe.

It wasn’t just his looks, though they helped. It was the way he handled everything, all quiet control and lazy danger, like he just stepped out of a secret he didn’t intend to share. The cards snapped between his fingers with the precision of habit, his gestures careful but also elegant. Almost at odds yet perfectly synchronized with who this man purported to be. He murmured something to the player across from him, a low quip that earned an uneasy laugh before he swept another pot toward himself. Not arrogance exactly… just inevitability. He was the sort that knew there were odds, and he had every intention… no, every skill he needed to get to success.

Any woman would’ve noticed him. Most would’ve fallen for the polish, the wealth, the unbothered grin. But it was the undertow that got me: the flicker of something ruthless behind the charm. That was what made him interesting.

When his gaze finally lifted and found me, there wasn’t a hint of surprise, just recognition. That ghost of a smirk, like he’d been expecting me all along. I hoped my reaction was the same, at least visibly. Damn though, I couldn’t be sure. Not with the volley of fireworks exploding in the pit of my stomach. Our gazes locked… and his eyes read steady and knowing, as if he’d just spotted his next play and was curious whether I noticed. Whether I would respond in turn. He knew, without needing the confirmation, the mark he made, and he wasn’t afraid to strike the fire while it burned.

Another shiver worked its way through me, low, familiar, hot. Half amusement, half warning. Men like him never looked startled. They looked ready.

His smile was slow, practiced without feeling rehearsed… someone who could make trouble sound like a compliment.

And damn it, I’d already started listening.

Shamefully, I moved like a moth to a flame.

“You again,” he said, voice warm enough to melt cynicism, the kind of liquid velvet that could make bad ideas sound like invitations. His gaze flicked down, up, never rushing. “Care to play, or are you just here to narrate my victories… maybe get an exclusive for your readers?”

“Mighty confident…” I tilted my head, unable to retain my smirk. “Or you just make a habit of assuming everyone else is here to lose?”

“Not confidence,” he said, cutting the deck without looking down. “Pattern recognition.”

“Sounds like cockiness to me...”

“Only if I’m wrong,” he said, finally glancing up. “And I’m not.”

“I figured I’d just watch the master at work,” I said, sliding into the empty chair beside him. “Observation’s underrated.”

“Observation is participation,” he murmured, eyes on the cards he’d just been dealt. “If you’re doing it properly.”

“Properly sounds dull.”

“Then we’ll have to misbehave.”

“Will we?”

“Oh, I’d be disappointed if we didn’t.”

The comments that longed to roll off my tongue at that moment were perhaps not meant for polite society. I leaned back, crossing my legs and peeped around, slowly wondering what people would say… or think, should I disrupt the fun and games for an altogether different sort of play. Not that I’d normally hold back on account of strangers that I’d neither see nor care about in less than a week. But this wasn’t about any of them… my hesitation. My gaze refocused and stayed trained. For a while, I stayed quiet. Watching him.

Damon played like he had a private arrangement with luck itself; fingers smooth, never hurried. Each bet landed with the confidence of someone who’d already seen the outcome. He talked when it suited him, short phrases wrapped in a wit that taunted and tantalized… the kind that made other players laugh just before he took them through the wringer.

Time and again, the dealer’s hand swept the chips toward him, clean wins, and more rounds of murmured appreciation from the table at large. He didn’t bother pretending to be modest about it.

“You enjoying the show?” he asked without looking over.

“Immensely.”

“Careful,” he said, eyes cutting toward me for a fraction of a second with a heat I liked the feel of. “Spectators get tempted.”

“Tempted to play?”

“Tempted to lose.”

“You think I’d lose to you?”

“I think you’d make it look good.”

“We’re still talking about poker here?”

His lip curled a little higher, “ready to move to the misbehaving portion of the day already…”

That earned him my first real smile. “Color me tempted…” It came out in a purr, like sin wrapped in a feather-light grasp. “But I guess deal me in for now...”

The dealer slid me a hand. And I caught the briefest flicker of approval in Damon’s gaze… the kind that gamblers reserve for anyone reckless enough to test their luck. His finger tapped once against the felt, a silent invitation.

I played the first few rounds lightly, losing with intention, the way one does when testing a current before diving in. Or so I tried to convince myself while pretending an indifference I did not feel. When… or rather if, he lost a hand, it was quick… and insignificant. Every card he laid down looked inevitable, every smile another tell he could afford to spend.

His charm was easy and playful. Almost certainly calculated. The tilt of his head, the glint of amusement in his rich brown eyes that made every glance feel like an inside joke. He pulled you in before you even realized he never promised to stay. It wasn’t the mystery that made him magnetic; it was certainty. The kind that made you want to test it. To test him.

“You’re a dangerous man to sit across from,” I said when the dealer token finally landed in front of him. His fingers seemed to shuffle by muscle memory alone as he glanced over.

“Not only then…”

As if I needed further reason to find him intoxicating. He was trouble waiting to happen, someone who’d learned to enjoy the burn of high-risk and the unexpected without shame or guilt. Or was that me shoving my own mantra onto him?

“You ever tire of winning?” I asked.

“Only when it stops being interesting.”

“Maybe you just need a better opponent.”

“You volunteering?”

“I thought I already had.”

Another smirk passed his lips. “You want to play risky? Fine. What about a little wager?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“If I win, I get one secret. Yours.”

“And if I win?”

“Then you get to keep it.”

I laughed, straight from my chest. “That’s a terrible wager.”

“Only if you lose.” His grin was diabolical.

“Try again… and what happens if I win?”

“Boring!” He smirked, “Fine… then you get something better than bragging rights.”

He dealt two cards, gaze never leaving mine.

“Loser owes the winner a favor. No limits.”

“That sounds reckless.”

“Exactly.”

I wished I hadn’t smiled again. Too telling. “And what kind of favor are we talking about?”

This smile was even more wicked… confident as sin. “Dealer’s choice.”

“Seems pretty unfavorable since I’m not dealing…”

He leaned in just enough for the words to sizzle in the air between us.

“You don’t need to deal to change the game.”

“And you think you’re the game?”

“No,” he said, smile curving. “I’m the gamble.”

The man knew just what to say, how to say it… and when. I tilted my head, but my pulse betrayed me before I could hide it.

He turned the river card, and my stomach dropped. He didn’t even look at his hand, just knew. His grin said it all.

“You bluff beautifully,” he said, laying his cards down, “but your eyes give you away.”

I exhaled a laugh I didn’t mean to, watching the pot slide his way. “Guess I should’ve seen that coming.”

“You should’ve,” he said easily, stacking his winnings. “But you wanted to see what would happen.”

“Curiosity,” I said. “Fatal flaw.”

“Possibly…” he said, eyes cutting to mine. There was a brief pause, long enough for his watchfulness to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight. All of a sudden, he flicked one of my chips back toward me with a lazy tap of his finger. “Consider it mercy. I prefer my debts alive.”

“Lucky me… guess I’m safe as long as I owe you…”

“Safe?” he echoed, a small laugh escaping. “That depends on how creative you are with repayment.”

“And what exactly is your prize to be?”

“All in good time…”

Dirty, rotten scoundrel. He gathered the deck, expression unreadable, the faint shuffle of cards louder than it should’ve been. Then, wordlessly, he slid the dealer token in front of me. Some debts, it seemed, were meant to mature. I pressed my lips together and took both the mark and the cards… a fool’s inheritance, maybe, but mine all the same.

“I think you just play for the thrill…” I mutter, but there’s too much amusement in my tone for him to take it any other way.

“Is there another reason?”

“Sure,” I said, failing to show the same proficiency he had with shuffling. “Survival.”

“Same language.” He chuckled, low. “Besides… you bluff like someone who enjoys the aftermath.”

“And you watch like someone who doesn’t,” I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

He laughed again, real this time, low and unguarded, the kind of sound that hits like a compliment.

“You’re good,” he said, lips still curled at the corners. A dimple carved deep in his left cheek, proof of it. “You start lying for a living long enough, you forget which part of it was the bluff.”

I suppose someone might’ve said I had the decency to blush, but I ruined it by laughing. When you’re caught… well, he’d already said it. That aftermath felt more like an afterglow: all tingle and light.

Play continued around the table, the two of us orbiting each other more than the game itself. Or maybe that was just me. Damon continued to maintain a healthy lead over me and everyone else in the room. It wasn’t about chips anymore; it was about reading tells, trading control, and seeing who’d fold first.

“Games are easy,” he said as a new dealer cut the deck. “As long as you know whether you’re playing… or being played.”

“Are you bestowing knowledge or just sharing experience?”

He leaned back, studying me over the rim of his glass. “I’ve seen my share of tables,” he said. “Some friendlier than others.”

“You win often?”

“When it matters.”

“So I’ll take that as an invitation to imagine the rest,” I said lightly.

There was a pause, a small shrug… the tiniest bit of a tugged lip, “Once, years ago, in Northern France… Royale-les-Eaux. Tiny place. Bad lighting. Great baccarat table.”

He said it so casually I almost missed it, the name rolling off his tongue like a memory he couldn’t seem to lose.

“What’d you win?” I asked.

“Enough to remember it,” he said. “Enough to make one very unhappy baron wish he’d stayed home.”

I smirked. “That a brag or confession?”

He smiled faintly. “Doesn’t matter. Either way, they bought the champagne.”

“Not sure if that makes you merciless or pompous…”

“Probably a bit of both…” he grinned cheekily, “but at least I have the looks to carry it off.”

The final hand felt less like a game and more like a performance he’d been rehearsing all his life. Calm, precise, inevitable. He moved with that quiet confidence that belonged to men who were used to winning, or at least pretending they’d planned to.

When the dealer turned over his last card, a ripple ran through the crowd; soft laughter, polite applause, the murmur of people witnessing something they couldn’t quite name. Damon just finished his drink with a calm so sharp it almost cut, the kind that didn’t need triumph to prove it existed.

The docent at his elbow clapped once, twice, the sound too crisp for comfort.

“Mr. Jebs, congratulations! I know everyone’s been eager to learn…”  A pause. A too-eager and too-bright, chipper smile spread across their face. “Your prize… better than any possible monetary reward… a private tour of the catacombs beneath the Library. Arrangements will be made for later this week.”

A ripple of excitement swept through the room. Not nervous, not wary ... envious. Someone gasped; another laughed, high and delighted. I caught a few phrases tossed like confetti... 'the vaults,' 'the relics,' 'the lucky bastard.'

Damon only smiled, that practiced grin I was starting to recognize, the one that said he’d already calculated the odds. He gathered his chips with slow precision, unhurried, unbothered... a man who never doubted the outcome.

Somewhere behind us, a docent announced the end of the session and began gathering stray chips. Damon slipped one of his into a pocket, like a magician keeping a secret.

When the crowd began to disperse, I lingered. He turned his chair slightly toward me, resting one arm on the table.

“You should come,” he said. “To the catacombs.”

“That an invitation or a test?”

“Does it matter?” His tone was low enough that I almost didn’t catch the edge underneath. “You look like someone who doesn’t believe in locked doors.”

It should have felt like good fun. But I had an eerie feeling. Something in the word ‘beneath’ lodged in my spine. Everyone else had acted as if the whole idea was a punchline, something worth envying. But I was lost. Unaware and confused… but the intrigue was not lost on me.

Maybe because of that? Or the whispers that were still following guests out the doors… I felt my pulse rising. Danger… Caution… Fear. Excitement. Or maybe it was just him, the way he could make danger feel like an inside joke.

The number of times I’d been warned about my inquiring mind in the past two days should’ve put a damper on that particular drive.

But what’s a girl to do when something is so inbred in her DNA that she can't escape it? Whatever they were… those catacombs, and the prize he’d just won… a peek inside… I wanted in. It wasn’t a kindness, and it sure wasn’t a preference. It was a damn reflex.

He had to notice my silence, but Damon seemed content with it. Relaxed. Impassive. Like the promise of the catacombs was no different from an offer of coffee.

“I prefer doors that open for the right reason.” I finally said.

He gave a slow, deliberate smile. “And what reason would that be?”

“Curiosity.”

“Dangerous motive.”

“Only if I’m wrong.”

He recognized the callback instantly… our mirrored lines and shared delusion that either of us was safe in our games.  For one unguarded beat, the bluff dropped.

“Let’s hope,” he murmured, “you never are.”

It sounded almost kind. But I knew better; encouragement can burn too. And I was certain we weren’t just talking about the catacombs anymore.

The next few minutes blurred into motion and polite noise; chairs scraping, glasses refilling, the murmur of people pretending the rhythms hadn’t shifted. By the time we stepped into the corridor, the air between us had cooled, but the echo of that look still clung like static.

Walking back toward the main foyer, the air between us hummed with quiet calculation. His win trailed like perfume through the corridor.

“You believe the docents’ story?” I asked. “That last night was all part of the show?”

He gave a small, careless laugh. “If it was, someone should’ve rehearsed it better.”

“That’s your take?”

“I’ve seen worse spectacles,” he said, tucking his hands in his pockets. “Rich people love a good scare… as long as it’s catered.”

“So you think it was a stunt.”

“I think,” he said, tilting his head toward me, “that everything here’s a stunt. The Library just has better lighting.”

He didn’t sound skeptical, only entertained. To him, it was all part of the game.

He glanced at me once more before we reached the door. “If you plan to stay long,” he added lightly, “try not to take the mystery personally.”

I gave a small smile, even as something about the words stuck in my chest. “Who says I don’t enjoy a little mystery?”

His grin was slow, knowing. “Good. It enjoys you, too.”

“It?”

But the words were lost in the air. Just like that, he was gone, slipping through the crowd as easily as if he’d been made for it, leaving the faint trace of cologne and danger in his wake.

CHAPTER SEVEN - "TRUTH OR DARE" - DONE

The sun fell before I felt like I was actually ready to face what lay ahead. I took longer than most to arrive and found myself marveling at the contrast from one night to the next. From opulence to warmth… like someone had snapped their fingers and changed the scene. Sure, the edges of that elegance remained, the marbled floors polished to perfection, carefully draped tables scattered through the room, and the candle-hewn chandeliers still burned, just lower now, the light more amber than gold… glowing into something that appeared almost kind. The music was soft jazz tunes, leaving room for the conversations that hummed low and consistent like nothing strange had ever happened.

I wasn’t convinced.

Wait staff drifted between clusters of guests, balancing trays of small plates and half-filled glasses like they were born to the task. But it was the docents’ smiles that stood out the most. They were certainly welcoming, but their laughter was too synchronized… hospitality rehearsed to perfection. They didn’t particularly look like they were watching, but they always seemed to be in the right place at the right time. Inescapably attentive. Their presence and regard was felt… like a cold wind.  If it wasn’t their intention… well, they fooled me.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that last night’s “welcome” experience was anything but planned. Or, perhaps worse, it signified something far more nefarious.

I told myself to let it go, to treat it like Damon had, a harmless spectacle gone a little sideways. But the thought wouldn’t sit still. It trailed behind me all day, through the corridors, up the stairwells, from my room into the faint glitter of the mezzanine lights as I followed the sound of music and glasses back toward the common hall for the evening.

By the time I reached the edge of the dinner crowd, the mask was already slipping back into place: a calm smile, a measured step, a new glass in hand. I might be a little shaken, but I’d be damned to show it.

I found a spot near the edge of the room, halfway between the chatter and the quiet. From there, it was easy to watch the rhythm of the crowd. Easy, too, to notice one person who didn't seem to blend… at least not like I had witnessed the night before.

Wes stood near the far end of the room, half turned toward two other guests. Perfect posture, half of a smile, a glass in one hand, the other tucked casually in his pocket. I’d wager money he was charming them with his conversation… with ease. But his attention wasn’t with them. It was the pause between sips, the delay he made before laughing… the faint, thoughtful crease that kept tugging at his brow. He was distracted… the kind that isn’t daydreaming, but rather preoccupation. He looked like a man rehearsing his reactions… smiling on cue, but missing his mark. Or like he was trying to hold two conversations at once… one aloud, one entirely internal. I recognized the look; I’d perfected the use of it a time or ten in the past.

He was casually dressed in a polo and slacks, nothing fancy but still perfectly polished. A laid-back sort of finesse that suited him well, like a striking camouflage. I might have easily missed the distance behind the ease if I weren’t so keenly aware of it.

Maybe that’s why I kept watching. Cataloguing contrasts like I’d need them later. Observing how he seemed to listen for something beneath the noise.

Or perhaps someone.

I barely knew the man, having only spoken to him for moments the night before. He could be waiting for a wife for all I knew. He wouldn’t be the first spouse to flirt shamelessly with me. Well, perhaps he was a bit less shameless than someone like Damon, but I didn’t mistake that underlayer of charm he tucked neatly behind his public facade. A significant other would certainly explain that.

Someone nearby laughed a little too loudly, and he smiled on cue. His eyes, though, didn’t follow the sound. They scanned the room but never seemed to gravitate toward anything specific, until they did. A tiny flicker of a glance was all it was, brief and exact. Our eyes connected, and something passed there in that single heartbeat. His expression changed, barely… a faint pull at the corner of his mouth, the kind that suggested recognition and intent in the same breath. In the next moment, he’s back, focused on his companions, that mask of his as firmly in place as my own.

My thoughts about him, and the tingle that came with them, shifted to the passing hors d'oeuvres tray. A convenient distraction

~~~~~~⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️~~~~~~~

“If I knew dinner would consist of pâtés and tea sandwiches, I’d have found something more substantial at lunch…”

I smirked and shifted my gaze from the small plate I’d collected to the would-be bored expression at my left. If it wasn’t for the heavy hint of mischief burning in those eyes, I might have believed it. The afternoon with Damon had taught me a lot. He looked every bit like sin looking for an alibi.

“I’m sure I saw a tray of puff pastries at some point…”

He signed dramatically, stepping closer and plucking one of the canapés from my plate. My pulse tripped when his shoulder brushed mine. I tilted my head, locking in on smoldering dark eyes that felt like they could burn straight through silk. I watched, with bated breath, as he slipped the small bite between his lips and seemed to savor its flavor… despite his complaint.

Should I have been concerned with how easily his presence, his nearness, unbalanced me? Especially when, moments before, I’d been considering another man altogether. I mean, I was only human… and I had a healthy appetite when it came to trouble dressed in tailored clothing. They just happened to serve it in pairs here.

“How are you this evening, Em?” I arched a brow as the name rolled off his tongue. Like a secret he’d been dying to share. “For… Monica… or maybe something else.”

“What other something could that be?”

He grinned, taunting and deliberate, then tilted the glass he held. I knew I was missing some point.

“I don’t even remember telling you Monica.”

“Didn’t you?”

“Let me find out you’ve been asking around about me…”

“Just testing out some of the more interesting options.”

“Be careful, you dive too deep into these waters and you might not find your way back out.”

He moved again, closer, nearly pressed against my side.

“Isn’t that half the fun?”

Soft and raspy, the warmth of his breath teased just against my ear. Quivers raced away from the caress, and when he pulled back, his gaze dropped to my lips, unhurried, intentional. I’d have been a complete fool to miss the implication.

Seconds passed, our eyes locked, my breathing tight, but then someone broke the tension… his name rang out from across the room somewhere.

He grinned, unrepentant, knowing exactly the kind of mess he was leaving behind.

“You really should warn a girl before you weaponize small talk,” I murmured.

“I think I like seeing you unsettled better.”

“I’ll be better prepared next time.”

“I do so love a challenge… We’ll talk again soon.”

It sounded like a promise. Then he vanished into the crowd as easily as he’d appeared, leaving behind the faint echo of his laughter and the scent of brandy tickling my cheek.

~~~~~~⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️~~~~~~~

Damon was more devil than Satan… but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it.
I shook my head, half amused, half trying to shake off the spark he’d left behind. The man could turn up the temperature at the North Pole.

I glanced around, scanning for a drink tray. Anything to quench a thirst I already knew wasn’t for champagne.

“Allow me…”

The voice reached me first… low, even, threaded with amusement. Then came the glass, held steady in a hand I recognized before I looked up.

Champagne fizzed softly between us, its chill doing nothing to cool the sudden warmth crawling up my spine.

“Thank you,” I said, taking it from him.

“Of course, Ofie.” Wes’s smile was easy—maybe a little too easy. The casual slip of my name felt like a caress, one that lingered longer than it probably should have. “You looked like you needed it.”

“Observant of you,” I murmured. “Starting to think you make a habit of arriving at convenient moments.”

“Or inconvenient ones,” he replied. The faint glint in his eyes could’ve been curiosity… or strategy. Hard to tell which.

He hadn’t looked surprised to find me alone, but there was something in the way his gaze lingered, like he was replaying whatever he might’ve seen moments earlier.

I took a sip to cover the thought. Bubbles, distraction, composure. “Well,” I said lightly, “either way, your timing’s impeccable.”

“That’s what they all say,” he murmured, and the smallest smile tugged at his mouth, as if he already knew the next move I’d make.

I swirled the glass absently, watching bubbles rise and burst against the rim. “And what is it I’m supposed to say next?”

“Tradition would suggest a toast.” His tone was playful, but there was something certain in the way he said it, like he was testing the air between us.  “You looked like someone who’d forgotten to toast herself.”

He lifted his glass just slightly.

I huffed a quiet laugh. “Oh God, can’t have that!. People might start thinking I’m modest, or something.”

“Now that,” he said, clinking his glass softly against mine, “would be a tragedy.”

The contact rang light, but the silence that followed didn’t. For a moment, it felt like the whole room blurred around us. Laughter, jazz, and candlelight smudged into background noise.

“You always this charming,” I asked, “or do I just bring out your best material?”

“Depends who’s grading,” he said, motioning toward an empty table tucked a few steps from the crowd. “Care to test my consistency?”

I hesitated, just long enough for him to notice.

“It’s not an interview,” he said. “I promise not to lie. Much.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“If you’d prefer, we can make it a game.” He gestured for me to sit, the corner of his mouth curved into something wickedly polite. “You like games, don’t you?”

“Depends on the rules.”

“We’ll make them up as we go.”

He waited until I settled into the chair across from him before leaning back, all ease and steady attention. “You ask one, I ask one. You can lie if you want. But if I catch you…”

“You’ll what?”

“Your turn to make the rules.”

I smiled into my glass, trying not to let it show that he’d already won the first round.

“Fine,” I murmured, swirling what was left of my drink. “Truth first. Easiest place to start.”

“Easiest to lie,” he countered.

“Semantics.” I tilted my head. “Truth: Why are you really here?”

“Dare,” he said without missing a beat. “Ask something easier.”

I laughed. “That’s cheating.”

“I never play fair.”

“I think you’re actually telling the truth…”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He wiggled his brows, the hint of a grin breaking his composure. “Go on, then. Try again.”

“How generous!” I giggled. “Truth: what’s the worst thing you’ve ever said and meant?”

His expression didn’t change, but something flickered behind it, the faintest tightening near his jaw before he exhaled a quiet laugh.

“I once told someone I’d stop looking,” he said. “Didn’t.”

“At what?”

“Everything.”

“That’s either poetic or incriminating.”

“You’d be surprised how often those overlap.”

He leaned forward slightly. “My turn. Truth: What are you running from?”

“Assuming I am?”

“Assuming you aren’t,” he said softly, “would be dull.”

I let the question hang there a beat too long, pretending to think when in truth, I was only trying not to tell him.

“Routine,” I said at last. “Complacency. People who ask too many questions.”

“Then I’m your nightmare,” he said, almost pleased.

“Nightmares can be fun,” I said. “If you wake up before the end.”

“Dare then,” he said, voice low, like he’d been waiting to say it. “Since truth doesn’t seem to work on you.”

“Dangerous offer.”

“I’m counting on it.”

“Fine. I dare you,” I said, leaning forward so the chandelier light slipped between us, “to tell me one thing that isn’t rehearsed.”

His smile faltered, just barely. “You assume everything is.”

“No,” I said softly, the corner of my mouth tilting. “I just like to see what happens when the script runs out.”

For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then, almost against his better judgment, he leaned closer, voice low enough to get lost in the hum of the crowd…

“You make people interesting again.”

The words landed like a match… quick, bright, and gone before I could decide if I’d imagined them.

“That sounded dangerously close to honest,” I murmured.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he said, recovering the grin, “I have a reputation to maintain.”

“You know,” I said, “for someone who plays everything so carefully, you’re awfully good at tempting disaster.”

His smile spread slowly. “Maybe I just like seeing who notices.”

“Sounds like you’re hoping for trouble.”

“Only the kind worth repeating.”

There it was again… that electric undertone that made everything he said sound like a dare.

“You sure that sterling reputation can bear the weight of the trouble I can cause?”

“It would certainly help if I didn’t want to find out.”

That felt like another jab of honesty… one I wasn’t sure he meant to expose. I licked my lips, and he watched like he couldn’t tear his gaze away.

Then he did.

“I should circulate before someone accuses me of favoritism,” he says, rising.


“I thought you liked games.”

“Sometimes,” he leaned closer, voice low… maybe even a hint of danger, “strategy has to come before action.”

“Sometimes,” I countered, “if you think too much, you miss your opportunity.”

He grinned as if he knew secrets I hadn’t even begun to consider, “Until next time, Ofie.”

“Assuming there’ll be one…”

“Oh, there will be,” he said, already walking away.

I was left watching him disappear into the crowd, the echo of that confidence trailing behind like the last notes of the music… too faint to hold, too sharp to forget.

CHAPTER EIGHT - "NEVER HAVE I EVER" - DONE

There was sound again, ringing in my ears, laughter breaking and reforming like the tide. I wasn’t sure how long I sat there, then standing, staring after Wesely, replaying the words I should have said… or the ones I shouldn’t have enjoyed so much. He was a charming enigma, exactly as planned, I had no doubt. He created illusions on purpose. The question really was how to tell which was the real him.

Or even if I cared to dig deep enough to find the answers.

In a week, I’d be gone, and all of this would be nothing but a memory. So what if weirdness was happening… and I found myself reflecting on Damon’s suggestion. I could wander about, fixated on strange happenings or just enjoy the amusements. Both of those men could certainly offer delightful entertainment and distraction. That much I was certain of.

Why not take advantage of the time ahead? Throw caution to the wind, stop pretending curiosity was a curse, and just… enjoy. Damon’s smirk, Wes’s puzzles… both offered delightful distractions from the creeping weirdness I was trying so hard to ignore. I chuckled to myself with a glance around for either of the two temptations, only to come up short. My heart skipped a beat as I locked gazes with a completely different sort of trouble. I knew in my gut he didn’t mean to be appetizing, but my foolish psyche wanted a taste despite any logical warnings.

I tore my gaze away first, reluctantly but with all thoughts of preservation. Asher Eames was the opposite of fun and games… uptight, brooding, patronizing. A self-proclaimed bore wrapped in perfectly pressed restraint.

A tray of desserts passed… fruit tarts, sugar-dusted pastries. I plucked one at random and drifted toward the edge of the room. The music had changed: slower now, hushed strings threading through the murmur of conversation. The kind of melody that makes you think of hands at your back and lips too close to your ear. I gritted my teeth, trying not to think of such things with pale gray eyes still dancing across my mind. That man didn’t deserve afterthoughts. I just couldn’t convince my pulse to agree.

I’d nearly convinced myself I imagined him watching me. A few more seconds, another sip of wine, and I might’ve written it off entirely, chalked it up to the way the chandeliers caught movement and turned it into meaning.

Then, through that soft buzz of conversation, I felt it again… being seen. Not by the crowd, but by him. Or perhaps I was just losing my mind.

I needed distance. Privacy. Something sweeter than champagne and sharper than my own thoughts.  My heels carried me before my brain could protest… instinct, not decision

The hall beyond the ballroom was dimmer, cooler. A welcome reprieve from the laughter and music that still pulsed faintly through the walls. I slipped through a half-open door marked Archive Room C, half out of curiosity, half because it looked like the sort of place no one was meant to go. A place where a mask could disappear for a few moments of release and recovery.

The scent of old paper and polished wood filled the air. Cabinets lined the walls, their glass panes catching the glow from the chandeliers outside. I trailed my fingers along one, not touching, just close enough to feel the chill radiating through the glass. The moment’s serene, my pulse slow, the quiet filling the gaps the evening had left behind.

Then there was a shift of the air, a strong undercurrent that threatened any peace I might have found.

“You shouldn’t be in here.”

The words came low, composed, carrying the same restrained authority I remembered. It wasn’t a suggestion, it was a verdict. If nothing else, the man was infuriatingly good at reminding me I had feathers to ruffle.

I turned, slipping back into my smile before I meant to.

Asher filled the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, the light behind him cutting his outline in amber and shadow. He wasn’t smiling.

“Neither should you,” I said, though the confidence cost me something.

“I’m not the one testing boundaries.”

“Is that what this is?”

He took a measured step forward. A doe in headlights crossed my mind. Or like I had a big red bullseye painted on the center of my face.

“Call it what you want.” He continued advancing, eyes glancing this way and that like he was assessing how much disruption I’d already caused. “What were you hoping to find?”

Solitude sprang to mind and raced away just as quickly, drinking in the sight of him.

“I thought you promised me a tour,” I grinned, choosing provocation instead. “Or was that invitation revoked?”

“I think we both know,” He paused, and there was caution and moderation in his tone. “You’re not looking for directions.”

I smirked, letting my finger drift along the spine of a book. Soft, defiant, the way one might test a bruise. There was something about the man that irked and teased, like a beacon against a rocky shore. Begging me to crash hard against him and be damned the aches or pains that followed just to get to dry land.

“I don’t know, sometimes stern lessons are worth the trouble.”

“Some aren’t worth finding out.”

He’d come close enough now that he plucked the book away, as if my touch alone would ruin it. I cast my gaze to him, quick, direct.

“Why follow me then?”

For a heartbeat, something flickered in his expression. Irritation, maybe.

“Because you don’t listen.”

That almost made me laugh. “So you’re here to scold me?”

“I’m here to remind you…” He was so close I could see the edge of his jaw flex as he spoke and the cord in his neck throb, “that curiosity’s only charming until it draws the wrong eye.”

I didn’t dare look away; it felt too much like backing down. I caught the faintest trace of his cologne… dark wood, smoke, something that didn’t belong in the open.

“And then what does it become?”

“A problem.”

There was something about the way he said it… problem… like the word might taste good if I let him feed it to me.

“No biggie, then. I’ve always been one of those.”

His gaze rakes over me, a trail that ignites every nerve before he shakes his head slowly. “And far too proud of it…”

He stepped past me, close enough that the fabric of his sleeve brushed mine as he reached for the handle atop a gilded globe. With a soft click, the sphere parted in two halves, an elegant deception, all mahogany sheen and hidden vice. The scent of liquor and polish mingled in the air, and his hand lingered over the bottles before he poured… one clear, one dark, like a study in contrasts.

He tossed back the darker pour in a single swallow. I stood there, motionless, trapped by the performance of it all. A moment later, he’d poured himself another before turning toward me. The movement was clean, practiced, but there was tension in it, like the custom of someone trying to forget something… or combat it.

“Stay hydrated,” he said at last, offering the untouched drink my way. “It’s especially important to be alert when you’re somewhere you don’t belong.”

I glanced suspiciously at the glass, then him.

“It’s water.”

“How responsible,” I mutter. “Is this where you tell me to behave?”

“I shouldn’t have to.”

His voice was quiet, perfectly even. The glass stayed between us, a test neither of us seemed eager to lose. That composure only made me want to ruin it.

I closed the last inch between us and reached for the glass. My fingers traced the inside of his palm as I took it… slow, intentional. The move earned me a subtle payoff: a quick flex of his hand, a tightening at his jaw, like control cost him something.

I smiled. Worth it.

“You do realize that the more you tell me not to look…”

“The more you will,” he finished. His lips were thin, but something behind his eyes wasn’t.

I grinned, unashamed. The glass was cool against my hand, though the air continued to buzz with the tension building. He didn’t move, didn’t blink…just watched. As if waiting to see whether I’d sip or drop the drink on purpose.

I took one small drink. Slow enough to make him notice.

“You really think a little water will keep me out of trouble?”

“No,” he said, pulling his eyes away from the swell of my lips. “But it might make you pause long enough to recognize when you’re walking straight into it.”

I laughed, “I failed that test the moment I stepped over the threshold of the building.”

“Even more reason for the water,” he said. “You’ll think more clearly.”

“Or less bravely.”

“Oh, is that what they’re calling reckless these days?”

I watched him over the rim of my glass before I took a sip. “Are you always this charming when you’re patronizing women with hydration advice?”

“Curiosity is a dangerous thirst,” his gaze stuck with mine. “This place has a way of taking more than it gives.”

“That sounds like a warning,” I said.

“It is.”

“So, which am I being warned for—trespassing or asking the wrong questions?”

“Take your pick.”

“Tell me, Ash, which one am I? The uninvited guest or the misplaced curiosity?”

“The Library let you in,” he said simply, lifting the amber liquid to his lips. “So, you’re supposed to be here… real name or fake.”

His sip was mocking, as teasing as mine had been intended. Or perhaps I just made it so in my head. I imagined the burn washing down his throat and the heat pooling in his belly to match the fire raging in mine.

“You make that sound reassuring.”

“Just a fact,” he said. “Don’t read too much into it.”

“And here I thought you were trying to get me to take all your warnings and advice to heart.”

“At least to be more careful…”

“Careful isn’t exactly my style.”

“That’s obvious.” He looked away as he said it, the line of his jaw tight, the glass pausing halfway to his mouth. “You chase trouble like it owes you money.”

“Bad habit.”

For a moment, neither of us spoke. His gaze dropped, tracing the line of my arm before lingering at my shoulder.

“So is teal,” he muttered, almost to himself.

“Excuse me?”

His eyes flicked back to mine, something reluctant but exact in them. “You wear it often. It’s… contradictory. Calm, peaceful, practical… when really you’re just pure chaos underneath.”

“You make it sound intentional.”

“Isn’t it?”

He looked quite irritated, maybe didn’t even recognize what his admission meant. Which only made it sweeter. There’s a particular kind of victory in making a man like Asher notice what he swears he’s immune to.

I smiled slowly. “Careful, Ash. Seems like you’ve been taking notice.”

“Unfortunately,” he said, finishing his drink. The word carried more weight than it should have. His gaze narrowed. “I think you crave mayhem.”

“And I think you could use a little more in your life.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, low and incredulous. “You mistake restraint for emptiness.”

“And you mistake chaos for loss of control.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Only for people who’ve never enjoyed it properly.”

That earned me a look. The kind that weighs, not glances. His mouth curved just enough to betray it wasn’t anger but something far less disciplined. He looked like a man measuring how much of himself he’d already given away without noticing.

“You really think mayhem would suit me?”

His voice had gone quiet again, not calm, exactly, but careful. As if the air itself had turned fragile between us.

“It already does,” I said, not smiling… hell, I think I barely breathed.

The silence after that felt louder than the music beyond the door. The chandelier light pooled across his shoulders; his face half in gold, half in shadows. He didn’t move for a moment, and neither did I. Then, as if something invisible snapped, he took the single step that erased the remaining space between us.

I could feel the heat of him, the faint scent of smoke and cedar that clung to his skin. His fingers flexed once… like a man stopping himself from making a mistake. I thought he might say something, might close the distance further, but instead he exhaled through his nose. Slow, steady… and reached past me, setting the half-empty glass back atop the globe bar. The move was smooth, practiced… retreat masquerading as composure.

“You should finish your water,” he said, voice steady again. “You’ll need it.”

“For what?”

His gaze dropped to my mouth, then found its way back to my eyes. “Whatever you decide to chase next.”

My eyes brimmed with heat, “Maybe I’ve already found my target…”

His eyes flickered, something sharp cutting through the calm.

“Careful where you aim, Ophelia. You might hit something that bites back.”

My name in his mouth stopped everything… sound, breath, thought. It shouldn’t have meant anything, but it did. He said it like he’d owned it all along.

He turned before I could find a reply, the faint echo of his footsteps vanishing into the hush of the hall.

I stood there, pulse drumming in my throat, the ghost of his cologne still hanging between us.

Damn him, even his exits felt deliberate. Never have I ever met a man so insufferably alluring.

It wasn’t until he was gone that my wit came crawling back. A perfect retort, too late to matter. I muttered it under my breath, equal parts irritation and adrenaline, then made for the door. No way was I letting him have the last word.

But as soon as I reached the corridor, the sound hit me… voices, sharp and overlapping. Excitement, confusion, maybe alarm. The music from the ballroom had faltered, replaced by that strange, collective hum of curiosity that always precedes trouble.
I slowed at the threshold of the ballroom, catching fragments as they passed between the guests like paper ash… Neal Colt, Tina Fen… they weren’t even supposed to be there. I didn’t know them, but everyone else seemed to. Or worse, thought they did.
I hesitated, pulse still chasing him even though he was nowhere to be seen.

Whatever happened next, it wasn’t going to be quiet.

LOOK:
POKER                                          DINNER


ROUND 1-DONE | ROUND 2 - DONE

SPILLED INK - DONE

CHAPTER NINE - "PROPAGANDA" - DONE

Sleep was slow in coming the night before and even slower retreating that morning. I rubbed my eyes against the narrow stream of sunlight creeping between the thinly drawn curtains and winced at the memories that raced through my mind. It would have been nice to wake without the bombardment of confusion and curiosity assailing me… but that wasn’t to be my fate. It had only been two days, but for some inexplicable reason, three handsome faces were intent on drawing my focus before I’d even risen from bed.

Not to mention the strange happenings at this place.

One night, floating words, the next, everyone was in an uproar about new arrivals. Normally, I’d never have given the second another thought. What exactly was so weird about guests when all of us… as far as I knew, were guests for the centennial. But it seemed to be a big deal; I’m certain I even overheard the word ‘breached’ during the commotion of the arrivals. It felt so odd, and it left me rambling over the gossip until the wee hours of the morning.

When I wasn’t thinking about one of them.

I shook my head, snatching the covers back, and headed for the shower. Since when did I let anyone disturb my sleep? This place, or those men, were more chaotic than I was being accused of being.

The problem, the real problem… was that I was certain that I liked it… or, well, at least some of it. A lot.

By the time I made it downstairs, only a few people lingered in the breakfast hall. Which suited me just fine… more time to gather my thoughts, reset my smile, and prepare for my continued performance. Only three more days to go… it would be a breeze.

I wasn’t ready for the new batch of staff, Junior Librarians, apparently. They floated among tables, coordinating exits or speaking eagerly with the few lingering people seated in the hall. The cheerful cousins of the ever-smiling docents. Same bright voices, same impeccable timing, but without that subtle air of authority the docents carried when they steered you toward the “right” hallway or away from the “wrong” one. These new ones felt gentler, almost rehearsed, like they’d been plucked out of a welcome committee and dropped into uniforms overnight. A tier down… or a tier meant to distract. All polish, and good cheer… as if trying to assure every possible necessity or request that would or could be made.

Except, obviously, if you dared ask about our fellow guests. The new ones, that is. The smiles were tight and firm upon any inquiry, a reminder that they deserved as much privacy as we were afforded.

And all I could think about was how often in the last couple of days I’d been exposed by some truth that I’d never shared with anyone.

It felt uncanny, artificial, and a little too deflective. But, of course, I knew a good deal about all of that.

Also, I didn’t trust anyone whose smile never dented at the corners.

I scanned the room for someone familiar, someone that didn’t wear a costume smile. And then, there he was… in one of the armchairs near the tall windows, sunlight casting an impeccable halo over him like he was preordained. Long legs stretched out like the furniture had been commissioned just for him. From a distance, all I could really make out was expensive fabric, relaxed posture, and the lazy movement of a pen scratching across glossy paper.

It wasn’t really a conscious effort, but before I even decided I wasn’t going to detour around him, his gaze was already on me. That effortless, almost bored, almost amused look that said he’d clocked me long before I’d turned his way.

Of course, he had.

I close the gap anyway.

Up close, I spotted the image of Kirsten Dunst grinning madly under the familiar Tatler logo. An older picture… much younger, the date flashed when he turned the page, November 2006, if I wasn’t mistaken. I knew the rag… glossy pages, perfume ads, half-forgotten scandals about the rich and famous. His pen hovered, then slipped a clean line through a sentence I couldn’t quite read before he added something in the margin in a tight, controlled scrawl.

“Naughty,” I said lightly. “I’m pretty sure defacing periodicals is a punishable offense… we are in a library after all…”

He didn’t flinch, just let the corner of his mouth tilt a little. “Good morning to you too… Em.”

I shouldn’t have felt anything at the way he said it, but the name sounded like a caress of cashmere against my skin. Secretive. Suggestive. Yet, it felt like I was the outside edge of an inside joke.

“You know,” I muttered, “most people just read magazines. You’re giving yours a nervous breakdown.”

“Just needs a little pampering.” He sat back, the pen still balanced between his fingers. “Some stories age better than others.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw a Junior Librarian drifting past with a stack of saucers. Damon’s hand moved almost heedlessly. The magazine closed a fraction, the pen shifted into the crease, and he rearranged his expression into something respectable. If you could ever categorize him as that. A pleasant, professional smile was tossed to us, but they kept moving. Damon’s brows gave a conspiratorial wiggle.

“You always this careful about your… pampering?”

“Always.” Again, there was a hint of something smoldering in that response. But then he shrugged. “I’m being generous here… think of it as… post-publication feedback.”

I laughed, “You do know no one’s going to see that, right? The ink’s dry on their reputations.”

“Maybe I just like the practice.” He tapped Kirsten’s face with one finger while his tone remained easy, unbothered. “Or maybe I’m revising for my own peace of mind.”

“Which bit offended you?” I tilted my head, trying to catch a glimpse of the page when he reopened it, without being too obvious. “Bad photo? Wrong quote? Slightly bruised ego?”

He grinned like I’d proven a point for him. “You assume it’s about me.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Sometimes.” His eyes held mine a beat longer than my spine could resist. “Sometimes it’s about the people who think they know me.”

I wanted to say something smart or witty about how that must be difficult to do, considering how evasive and superficially charming he can be. But the comment dug just a little too close to home, given my own borrowed name and borrowed life. I shrugged like it didn’t land.

“You rewriting them too, then?”

Again, those eyes hovered, dropped, assessed. “Only in my head.” He tapped the magazine again. “This… it’s just editing the record.”

“Very civic-minded of you,” I said. “Heroic, even.”

“Now, now… let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” His grin sharpened. “I just have very strong opinions about what gets to be called the truth.”

It was a throwaway line, delivered casually, but something in it snagged against my conscience. Not deep enough for revelation, just enough to itch. One of my brows slipped up a notch.

“Still doesn’t explain why you’re taking the chance to vandalize a magazine that’s older than half the people in this room.”

“It’s only criminal if I get caught.”

“Silly risk if the damage is already done.”

“You’re adorable when you pretend you’re the sensible one.” He leaned back, grinning. “We both know trouble looks good on you.”

Shots fired, bombs landed. Still, I didn’t want to accept defeat so easily… perhaps proving his point too matter-of-factly.

I rolled my eyes, but the corner of my mouth betrayed me. “Please. If I wanted to cause trouble, I wouldn’t do it with a Sharpie.”

“Do tell…”

The way he looked at me then, like a secret he’d already half-opened, was not good for my equilibrium.

“Don’t stare like that,” I muttered. “You’ll get ideas.”

“I already have ideas.”

Dangerous. Stupid. Addictive.

I shook my head, determined to get things back on track. Or at least closer to a neutral playing field… maybe somewhere in the parking lot.

“So… your little effort here is to be a nuisance?” I nodded to his prize. “Or will I discover you’ve really been correcting the crossword all this time?”

“Crosswords are beneath me.” He flicked the edge of the cover. “I prefer long-form character assassinations.”

I laughed despite myself. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

“So far, so good.” Laced small talk was this man’s superpower. “I find I like you quite nicely right where you are.”

“And where is that?”

“Entertaining me…”

“Like a puppet on a string?”

“God. I hope not…” The warmth in his tone belied the sigh, “puppets are so predictable.”

Another of the new librarians drifted past carrying a carafe of coffee and a stack of folded napkins; the unmistakable “breakfast is winding down” shuffle. Damon barely spared them a glance, but I didn’t fail to notice that pen had shifted out of sight once more.

“So happy I could oblige…”

“Oh,” he grinned as he stood, folding the Tatler under his arm measuredly, “You will never convince me you aren’t.”

“Even if I tried.”

“You’d never be successful at being typical, Em.”

“I could give it a valiant effort.”

That earned me a laugh. Rich, deep, honest. The corners of his eyes wrinkled where it reached them.

“Whatever respectable plans you had for the afternoon,” he mocked,  “break them.”

“Going to try and corrupt my campaign?”

“Undeniably.” That infuriating half-smile swam into view. “Besides, you still owe me.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” I said lightly, even though the thought of that wager still left an unsettled feeling deep in my gut. Not fear, not anxiety. Pure adrenaline. “But, you never specified what exactly I owe you.”

“That’s the beauty of it.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough to make an invitation and a dare in the same breath. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“No,” he said, amused. “It’s supposed to make you curious.”

I opened my mouth to reply. Something sharp, or charming, or deflective hummed on the tip of my tongue. But he was already starting to walk away, only to glance back once, eyes warm, knowing…

“You’re going to say yes later, Em.”

Damn him. My pulse agreed.

CHAPTER TEN - "HOLLOW PAGES" - DONE

He was incorrigible, but he was right. I liked it. There was no point in lying to myself at any rate… even while I continued to deceive everyone else around me. Or, at least tried to. Too often, I’d been proven just how pointless my subterfuge was perceived inside this building.

I frowned now, watching how Damon disappeared into the quiet chaos of Junior Librarians guiding servants clearing plates and sweeping guests toward whatever came next. It certainly wasn’t going to be the bug exhibit. Oh, no… I heard it repeated by someone near the entrance of the hall, the Book Worm habitat had been cancelled. But the disappointment in their tone was quickly replaced with a buoyant reminder of the morning of free exploration available to us.

Remembering the Docent’s steady presence the day before, and the Junior Librarian’s unrelenting steadfastness all morning, I couldn’t help but wonder just how independently we could roam.

Somehow, I doubted it would be unobstructed.

When I read library on the invitation, I’d underestimated what that actually meant here. Maybe it was time to dig into this mausoleum’s secrets instead of chasing the next thrill.

I nearly laughed out loud. Instead, a cheeky smile spread across my face as I walked toward a sideboard lining the left side of the room. The coffee was still warm; at least some miracles survived the night. I poured myself a cup… cream, no sugar… the whole act was more about giving my hands a task to do than anything resembling taste while I considered my next moves.

When I looked up, my gaze locked, and I felt my breath catch. I gritted my teeth almost immediately before lifting my mug and releasing a soft huff across the rim. He didn’t look away; in fact, I suddenly had the impression that he’d been looking longer than I realized. Or I was imagining it… maybe projecting a want instead of a reality.

Asher leaned against the door frame, a stark reminder of the night before, only this time, no shadows were softening his look. Not that it mattered one bit. He was all long lines and effortless ease, a wicked reminder that everything here came at a price. And the cost of him was the stolen hours I’d spent thinking about him last night. He looked good. Too good. And what really pissed me off was how well-rested he appeared. But then his gaze shifted, breaking eye contact to do a thorough appraisal of me. Slow, willful, at least, that’s what I thought until his stare crawled back to my eyes. My stomach coiled into a solid knot. There was something there… half annoyance, half something else… something he wanted to keep locked behind his teeth.

He didn’t move right away. Just watched, like he was deciding whether I was part of an act or something worth improvising for. Then, finally, he pushed off the doorframe and came toward me. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just that quiet, coiled certainty he wore like a second skin.

He stopped just close enough that I could feel the heat of him drift across my skin. His eyes flicked from my face to the cup in my hand and back again.

“You’re avoiding trouble awfully early,” he said. The tone wasn’t gentle. Or impressed. More like a challenge sharpened to a point.

I lifted my mug. “I needed caffeine before I dealt with you.”

A muscle in his jaw kicked… not annoyance, something worse. Interest. I didn’t want to like it, not one bit.

“You were dealing with me last night just fine.”

“Misstatement. I was tolerating you.”

He huffed a laugh, barely. “Right. Keep telling yourself that.”

His gaze dropped to my mouth as he said it, just for a second… then snapped back to my eyes like he wished he hadn’t let it slip.

I rolled my shoulders back. “If you came over here for round two, you can save it.”

He took one more step, invading my space deliberately, the air tightening like a vice grip around my throat.

“If I wanted round two,” he said low, “you wouldn’t be standing still.”

And God help me, the threat of it made my pulse hammer.

“Big talk,” I finally found my voice, relieved it didn’t squeak out in some pathetic whimper. “From someone that ran away from me last night.”

His lips curled in anything but mirth. It was dark and stormy… and shouldn’t have been exposed so early in the day. That grin was meant for shadows and bedsheets.

“So which is it to be then, Ophelia? Toleration or temptation?

I laughed under my breath and rolled my eyes before setting my coffee mug aside. I regretted the emptiness immediately.

“Your ego is exhausting.”

“And your denial,’ he countered in such a low tone I wanted to pretend I hadn’t heard at all, “is worse.”

But his gaze wouldn’t relent, unwilling to let me hide from the effect of his words.

I lifted my chin, all teeth and trouble, hoping the saucy grin hid how unsettled I truly felt.

“Please. If I wanted to tempt you, Asher, you’d know.”

A flash crossed his face, quick and dark. “Would I?”

“You already do,” I murmured.

That earned me the smallest, most dangerous twitch at the corner of his mouth yet. Something halfway between sport and surrender, he refused to give fully.

His gaze dipped, briefly, to my mouth before snapping back up. “Are you coming or not?”

That halted me. “Coming where?”

“For your tour.”

And his expression, suddenly guarded, all tight and determined, made refusing feel like stepping back from the edge of something I wasn’t done looking over.

He didn’t wait. He just turned, expecting me to follow.

So I did.


~~~~~~⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️~~~~~~~


He didn’t look back to check if I followed, which was just another annoyance to add to the growing list where he was concerned. But at least from behind, I had the advantage of watching him slip through the corridors, leading with the purpose of someone who expected the world to shift out of his way. His shoulders were squared and his movements fluid… his steps just long enough to allow me to keep up but in no way leisurely.

We passed two docents. Both greeted Asher like he was a regular landmark, yet barely glanced at me. Junior Librarians drifted past us like cheerful ghosts, murmuring pleasantries but never bothering to question or even redirect us from our destination.

It was both unnerving and irritating.

“You always walk like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re leading a manhunt.”

He tossed a look back to me, more casual than his stride would suggest.

“Do you want me to slow down?”

My chin notched upward, “No.”

“Good.”

I wrinkled my nose with a silent mimic when he turned forward again.

“Where are we going?” I pressed, skipping a few steps to finally match his pace, refusing to give him the satisfaction of trailing behind further.

“You’ll see.”

My jaw clenched once. “You know that’s not an answer.”

“It’s the one you’re getting.”

“Can always rely on you to be consistent, I guess.”

I ignored the glance he sent that time and focused on moving forward instead of twisting around in retreat. I’d be damned if I let him see me cave to his pressure.

My attention shifted to my surroundings, pretending that his body heat didn’t tease from just inches away during our walk. The corridor curved, narrowing into a long gallery lined with framed literary prints. It was quieter there, the further we got from the breakfast hall. Solid chestnut doors peppered the passage, richly polished with darkly etched placards hung above each with a numbered designation like all the rest. Between the entries, light filtered through high arched windows… too far from the ground to make a suitable escape should one be needed. My gaze moved to the marble floor, the morning sun hitting in patterns like the words I’d seen floating two nights ago.

Well, not exactly, but I swallowed that thought, hating how the reminder prickled at my flesh like needles.

“You look tired,” he said suddenly.

“Thanks.” I deadpanned. “Always appreciate public commentary on my face.”

His mouth twitched. I tried not to notice. “Wasn’t a criticism.”

“Sure sounded like one.”

He stopped abruptly, leaving me with little option but to look directly at him once I noticed. He tilted his head, gaze sweeping over me with a carefulness that felt too intimate for a hallway.

“You ran yourself ragged last night,” he said quietly. “Watching everything. Everyone.”

I opened my mouth to deny it.

His eyes flicked down to my hands. “You’re still doing it.”

I frowned and pressed my lips together. “Doing what?”

“Assessing. Suspecting. Scheming.”

“Habit.”

I hadn’t meant to say that.

“Habits come from reasons.”

His focus and the quiet intensity of his words had the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. His warnings from last night… hell, from the last few days looped in my mind. Reckless, foolish… in over my head. Trouble. Yet, here he was leading me deeper, like he’d changed his mind about whether I belonged in any of those categories. Or… he’d decided to test my challenge. He was unquestionably causing me personal havoc. Infuriating, inconvenient, undeniable.  The man was trying to dig where I dared not let him. I could defend… or deflect.

“If I knew that the sunlight loosened your lips so much, I would have sought you out at dawn… oh, the questions I could have gotten answered.”

“If you ever do see me at dawn, I promise… it won’t be because we’re having a Q and A…”

He grinned. That vexing kind of grin that made you forget the argument you were trying to have. My skin crawled, but oh how I wished it were in disgust and not treacherous excitement.

Before I could gather a response, he started again, walking through an archway just steps ahead marked FICTION - 800’s.

The shift was palpable, the air cooler, silence thicker. It was heavier, somehow. Like stepping into a room that had been holding its breath for a century… or a church steeped in secrets and forgivings.

Tall shelves towered in neat rows, lantern-like pendant lights bathed the aisles in warm tones, flickering from one wall to the other. At the far end, a Junior Librarian stood on a small ladder, sliding books into place with the grace of a dancer before climbing back down and disappearing.

“Why bring me here?”

I hated the tremor in my tone… I felt it, though, like I didn’t belong there in that quiet place.

He hesitated just long enough for me to catch it. Or maybe he was judging, deciding that he doubted I belonged there as well.

“You’re going to help me.” He uttered softly.

Of course, that could have been just for the fact that we were in a library. Wasn’t that how you were supposed to act? Differential and respectful? That I had that creepy feeling like I was being watched didn’t help rectify rational with apprehension. I looked around as he moved forward, noting that there wasn’t a soul around anymore. Still, I quickened my step to follow sharp on his, nearly slamming right into him when he turned ahead of one aisle.

On pure reflex, his grip steadied me, both arms caught in each hand. It was like a jolt of lightning stabbed through me. Breathing hitched, eyes dilated… but maybe it was from the eeriness of the room. At least, that was the lie I tried to assure myself with. The fresh fragrance of mint and spice radiated off him, and his warm touch did the rest.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes.”

My voice betrayed everything, and his eyes narrowed. The hold couldn’t have lasted longer than a few seconds, but it felt like the whole center had dropped out of me.

The only saving grace I felt was seeing that he wasn’t any less affected by the moment than me. His fingers flexed at his side while he scanned my face. What he sought, I couldn’t tell, but thankfully, he turned and moved left, weaving through the stacks with abnormal familiarity. I shivered, following at a less rapid pace.

“Let me guess…” It was a relief to hear my voice light and unaltered, even if my heart was still hammering like a drum in my ears. “You’re one of those people who know where everything is in a library.”

“Only the important things.”

I had a couple of clever replies on the tip of my tongue, but he suddenly stopped and focused his attention on a shelving row marked H.

“Make yourself useful.”

“Excuse me?”

“Victor Hugo… we’re looking for Les Misérables,” he said, his full attention directed to the row of books instead of anywhere near me. “Find it.”

I opened my mouth to argue, then shut it. Fine. If he wanted to play brusque librarian, I could play scavenger. Anything was better than thinking about the heat that teased along each arm still.

I found it first. Of course, he plucked it from my hand the second I touched it.

“You could’ve just asked politely,” I said.

“I’ve tried that. It doesn’t work on you.”

“Polite… or asking?”

He made a sound that could mean anything, but I avoided examining it in any manner. The man was already taking up too much of my headspace. I did not want to have more of him burrowing into my mind.

He opened the book, and I glanced over casually, peeping over his shoulder. Curiosity wasn’t going to kill this cat that day, or at least I thought. First page, second… third. I almost turned away, a yawn on the tip of my tongue, but then…

“What the hell?” I hissed, too sharp, too alarmed. Too confused.

He looked over, snapping the cover closed. But it was a bit too late for that. I frowned up at him.

“We’re done here.”

“What? No… what was that?”

“That?”

My eyes narrowed into slits. Entire stretches of text were missing… gone. Not torn. Not smudged. Not altered. Missing. Clean white gaps were scattered between paragraphs like something or someone had just reached in with invisible fingers and plucked them away.

“Asher, I’m not blind.”

“Ah… so you bumped against me on purpose then?”

I sputtered, totally confused by the swift accusation.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m wondering…” he moved, shattering the space between us in just a few steps. Dangerously close. Close enough that I felt the subtle brush of his breath against my cheek as he angled toward me. The stupid book was all but forgotten. “I did warn you to be careful with your aim.”

“If I were trying to seduce you, Ash… you wouldn’t have to wonder.”

His breath hitched—just barely—but he recovered fast. “Cute.”

I arched my brow. “Admit it. You’re rattled.”

A humorless sound left him. “By you? Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late,” I muttered. “You already did.”

His mouth curved… not quite a smile. “Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy the attention.”

“And here I thought you didn’t like me,” I teased.

The air between us strangled with his presence. “Liking you isn’t the problem.”

“What is?”

“That you don’t listen,” he said, gaze lingering on my mouth. “And you don’t fear the right things.”

“And you do?” I murmured.

His jaw flexed. “I know when something’s dangerous.”

“Do you?” I tilted my head. “Because you keep walking straight toward me.”

Something in him stuttered… breath, thought, restraint. His eyes dropped again to my lips, and it hit me with embarrassing clarity that he wanted to eliminate all distance and absolutely hated that he wanted to.

He broke it, stepping back sharply.

The cold air rushed between us again.

“We’re done here,” he said, though his voice wasn’t as steady as before.

“Yes… It seems so.”

If his gaze was any indication, he knew the sound of my disappointment. He gripped my elbow and swung me toward the archway. Our steps were the only sound, echoing along the marble until the corridor started to brighten again. He didn’t say another word until we were feet from the main lobby.

“Stay alert,” he all but demanded. “If you see something… if anything feels wrong, you come straight to me.”

I wanted to roll my eyes. To tell him to go to hell. But shakily, I sensed there was something in those words. Something testier… something way too threatening.

There was concern in his voice.

Luckily, he turned away before I could figure out why his concern scared me more than anything I’d seen in this place.

CHAPTER ELEVEN - "METAPHORIC RISE" - DONE

I didn’t breathe until Ash’s back disappeared into the crowd.

God, he was a maddening man. All ice and fire. Driving me crazy with his words, but worse… when he wasn’t saying anything at all. The place he left behind… the space beside me, it felt like it still vibrated with the echo of his warning.

Stay alert.

Like he expected something terrible, and somehow… I was the weak link in its path.

I rubbed a hand down my arm, trying to shake it off.

The lobby was brighter now, warmer than the fiction wing, but the unease clung like static. I told myself it was irritation that I was feeling. That he’d bossed me around half the morning only to shut everything down the second I asked a real question.

But it wasn’t just that.

It was the book.

I had a vague sense that the staff were working on laying out the lunch service, trays being swapped, tables reset, the quiet hum of people drifting in to claim seats. But I moved toward one of the wide arched windows, letting sunlight spill over me as if it could burn away the creeping sensation under my skin.

Except all I could picture were those empty white gaps littering Les Misérables. Clean. Precise. Wrong.

Floating words, now missing words. Not identical, but certainly too similar for mere coincidence. Right? Ash’s warning… the flicker of concern in his voice that scared me far more than any blank space on a page could. And what was it Damon had been doing earlier that day? Editing… more words.

It’s a library. Of course, words were everywhere.

The callback was too uncanny. I dragged in a ragged breath.

Then, like a jolt, another realization clicked unpleasantly into place.

That bastard had distracted me.

My jaw flexed, remembering how he moved closer, dropping his voice into the promise of a velvet hug. He’d taunted me, coerced me into noticing him. The heat, the proximity, the tension. A perfect sleight of hand. Him, instead of the book.

And the worst part was that it had worked exactly as he planned.

I let out a sharp, indignant breath.

“Great,” I muttered, “manipulated into horniness. Classic.”

Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. I was unraveling before lunch.

A pair of Junior Librarians floated by, bright smiles plastered on like decals. Too perfect. Too synchronized. Their footsteps made no sound against the marble. I watched them disappear around a corner and felt the faintest prickle up my spine.

Maybe Ash’s warning wasn’t as ridiculous as I wanted it to be.

I checked my watch. Still over an hour before lunch. Plenty of time to pull myself together.

And God, I needed it.

My pulse was still uneven, my skin still too warm, my thoughts a tangled mess of missing words and mint-scented distraction.

I headed for one of the guest washrooms tucked off the main corridor. Inside, the lighting was soft, the porcelain counters spotless. I braced my palms against the edge of the sink and studied my reflection.

A little flushed. A little wild-eyed. My mascara had smudged in the corners, because, of course, it had. I felt far too unstable and unprepared to deal with… well, anyone.

Cold water helped. Powder. Lip balm. Fresh liner and a slow, steadying breath.

By the time I stepped back out into the corridor, I felt marginally balanced, well… at least on the outside.

Inside?

“You're fine. Pretend you’re fine.”

But I had a problem. A looming pale-eyed itch that wanted to be scratched even though I knew in my gut it was a bad idea. Everything about him was dangerous… his arrogance, the pride, the control. But most especially that awful, touching concern he’d tossed at me that was nothing like an afterthought.

I crossed the lobby, keeping to the edges, hoping for a moment of quiet before the next scheduled madness. The space buzzed with scattered chatter, clattering plates, and foodsteps echoing off the marble. Normal noise. Everything was alright. Everything should have been alright. But the in-between was silent, too sharp and too bright to avoid.

I didn’t want anyone reading my face at that moment. Couldn’t have it.

Biting down, I turned… and of course, that’s exactly when his face materialized, directly in my path. As if he had literally been conjured just to interrupt… or unsettle me further. I was almost shocked a flute wasn’t hovering in my face exactly like his last appearances.

“You look like someone told you potatoes were cancelled for life.”

To be honest, I was surprised I didn’t jump ten feet backwards with the roller-coaster of emotions spiraling inside, but then there was this ridiculous wave of relief that broke through all the tension.

Wes, in front of me, held a plate in one hand, a striped napkin thrown over his shoulder like he’d won it in battle. His smile was softer than usual, less show, more sincerity.

“Oh, thank God,” I exhaled. “A normal person.”

He blinked, amused. “Uh… thanks? I think?”

“I meant compared to…” I gestured vaguely at the air. “Everything else.”

He laughed under his breath. “Rough morning?”

“You could say that.”

“Well,” he said, brightening, “I think I can top it. Or at least… offset it.”

“Offset it, how?”

He wiggled the plate at me. “Come on. I need your eyes for this.”

I blinked. “My eyes.”

“Yep. Very important eyes.” He stepped closer. “Follow me.”

Before I could argue, he guided me a few feet away from the main grouping of guests, near a quieter alcove between two pillars.

“Okay,” he said, setting the plate between us on a low display shelf. “Ready?”

“For what?”

“The pinnacle of my skill set. The absolute peak.”

“Potatoes?”

He gasped. “You mock, but these are premium lunch potatoes.”

I rolled my eyes. “Wes.”

He winked. “Just watch.”

He palmed three roasted potatoes from his plate and placed them gently in the center.

“Eyes on the plate,” he said. “Don’t blink.”

“I… fine. But if this involves juggling…”

“No juggling.” Then, lowering his voice dramatically, he muttered something. It was foreign, words I’d never heard before. It sounded like ‘win…’ something. Or maybe I’d misheard. The second word definitely started with an L’. I frowned, watching him instead of the plate for a brief moment until he released a satisfied chuckle.

Then I looked back, and my jaw nearly fell off.

His palm was floating above the plate, fingers curled slightly, and there, underneath, three plump spuds lifted and hovered over the plain white china like tiny, impossible planets. My pulse thundered.

But as quickly as it happened, in the next heartbeat, both his hand and the potatoes fell, the latter with soft thuds.

My breath stalled in my throat; I was completely dumbstruck.

“What the…?”

Wes grinned in a warm, partly proud, partly shy manner. I laughed, lifting one of the potatoes from the plate and rolling it between my fingers.

“How’d you do that?”

I grabbed one of his hands next, the one he’d held above the plate. I inched his sleeve higher, looking for a string that would explain the illusion. His skin was warm, not electric. No jolts, no wrecked nerves spiraling out of control.

“Magic?” he muttered cheekily.

“Ummhmm… so you don’t want to share your secrets…” I laughed again. At ease.

A far cry from what the other men in this place caused me to feel.

The thought was like dousing me in icy water. It had nothing to do with Wes, but I felt awkward about it nonetheless. Why did it feel wrong to enjoy someone who didn’t set me on fire? He was sweet, a little mysterious, sure, there was still so much I didn’t know about him. But I didn’t have the stark awareness of him that bubbled just under the surface when around Damon… and Asher.

It was an indisputable revelation, a little unnerving. His charming and flirty behavior suddenly felt a bit trivial in comparison to the other two… one richer and provocative, the other darker and inflammatory.

“You okay?” he murmured then, his tone easing into something gentle.

I hesitated. Then nodded. But I felt completely unconvinced in myself.

He nudged the plate toward me. “Here. You should eat something.”

“I’m… actually meeting someone soon.”

“Right.” He nodded once, expression still soft. “Just… don’t go into anything today feeling like that.”

“Like what?”

He searched my face, expression turning thoughtful in a way that made my stomach warm.

“Like you’re bracing for impact.”

I swallowed. He let the silence settle only a moment before he lightened the air with a grin.

“But hey, if you need backup, just whistle.”

“I don’t whistle.”

“Then hum. Or shout my name dramatically across the hall. I respond to both.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” he said, stepping backward with a little salute, “you keep talking to me.”

“I keep talking to lots of people.”

“Sure.” His eyes crinkled. “But you smile at me.”

He didn’t hang around longer, choosing to head off in a direction that was lost to me as I continued musing over my situation. This place was causing some strange sensations. Bewildering and far too intense considering just how long I’d been there. It seemed almost as if a day contained a month’s worth of experiences and feelings.

It was utterly ridiculous. But everything here was rising… pressure, danger, tension. Even potatoes.

CHAPTER TWELVE - "MUDDY PASSAGES" - DONE

People were scattered through the main level, absorbed in distractions and activities that seemed to amuse them in ways I was struggling to achieve by that time.  The buzz was a bit louder than the morning, likely due to the increased number of bodies milling around. Some had maps, others large dusty tombs; someone in the corner was sketching the chandelier above, like they were auditioning for a Renaissance revival.

The air in the hall felt too warm, too close, brushing up against my skin like a phantom reminder of fingers that had touched me only an hour before. I pressed a palm to my cheek, willing the heat to behave.

I needed a reset. A breath. A grounding thought.

Wes had helped, perhaps more than I wanted to admit. His ridiculous charm, his stupid potatoes, his ease. For a moment, he’d given me back a fraction of control. A fraction of normalcy. He’d managed to pry a laugh out of me when nothing was making sense and everything hung from question marks in the margins. For five minutes, I felt… steady.

And yet… normal didn’t stick the way it used to. How that happened in two short days made absolutely no sense. This was meant to be a little vacation from my day-to-day, but not in this unthinkable, astounding way. Ash’s warning still pulsed under my skin, like a splinter I couldn’t tweeze out.

Stay alert.

My mind kept replaying it against Wes’ playful grin and Damon’s sensual charm, trying to reconcile all three. What exactly had I fallen into? And was it the place or the people that unnerved me the most? Because… something was off. I knew it in my bones like the first cold bite of winter.

Fantastic. Just what I needed. Paranoia as a side dish.

I planted myself near one of the windows, near a tall grandfather clock, its steady ticking filling the silence in my head, and took a deep breath. I told myself I was going to hold it together for at least ten minutes without being drawn into any more oddities. Tick. Tick.

I scanned the room without meaning to and found him instantly. Tick…

Nope. Apparently, ten seconds was too ambitious.

He leaned against a carved column like he’d been placed there by an artist with too much time and too much appreciation for symmetry. Jacket off, sleeves rolled, posture easy… too easy, like a man waiting for trouble he’d already bribed.

His eyes flicked to me a few seconds after my quiet appraisal. No greeting, no smile, just that quiet calculation he used when he wanted something. I was struggling to decide if it was the usual sort of thing one would expect from a rich, bored playboy, or if there was something far different he craved. From the way his mouth tipped afterward, I suspected this thing would at least be fun. Or at the very least risky, which equaled the same thing to people like us.

A distraction… dangerous, enticing, perfectly timed to push out my erratic overthinking.

He didn’t come to me right away. That wasn’t his style. Damon preferred to let anticipation stroll over first, both intimidation and intoxication. He was potent, even from that distance. I knew his type far too well… he even told me the first night we met… the man burned through novelties and never lacked options. I stood where I was, eyes locked, and refused to make a single motion in his direction. A silent challenge between like minds. And based on the slow curl of his lip, it was a contest that garnered his approval.

He pushed off the wall with a slow prowl of movement, never diverting his gaze. The corners of my mouth had already turned upward despite everything inside me still vibrating with leftover nerves. But this, this kind of tension between me and Damon, I knew how to handle.

“Em,” he drawled, sauntering to a stop before me with the kind of swagger that made the grandfather clock behind me seem like it ticked exclusively for him. “Tell me you’re free.”

“For you?” I said lightly. “Depends. Are you planning trouble or pretending innocence today?”

“Both,” he said without hesitation, leaning in just enough to ignite heat between us. “But mostly trouble.”

I huffed a soft laugh. That was so much better. Familiar. Predictable in the most unpredictable way.

“And what flavor of chaos are we indulging in this afternoon?”

He tipped his head, slow and conspiratorial, eyes glinting.

“A tour.”

‘You don’t fear the right things...’ A scolding voice hissed in my mind, but I shoved it right away. Damn him.

“A tour,” I echoed. “How very wholesome… I thought all the tours were supervised.”

He nodded… once. “Official tours.”

“And this one?”

“Comes with better perks.” His gaze dragged over me.

“And where…” I asked almost shoulder to shoulder, ignoring the throng of guests seeking a midday meal around us, “Is our unsanctioned field trip?”

“Catacombs.”

The whisper, along with the location and a secretive point toward the west corridor, sent a shiver down my spine. I’d thought it the first time I heard about the opportunity he’d won at that poker game. Fear… excitement. That afternoon was no different. It should have triggered hesitation. Caution.

Stay Alert.

Ash’s warning bleated in my head like a damn cop siren, and served only to pump my adrenaline in the same fashion.

“I thought you’d already won a visit there…” I attempted precaution, despite every fiber of my being twitching with eagerness. “Why not just wait for your chaperoned arrangement?”

“God, no!” His eyes rolled in pure intolerance, but the wicked grin was unmistakable. “They’d only ruin the ambiance.”

I bit on my bottom lip and tried my very best to ignore the mischief in his eyes. And knew without a doubt I was not succeeding. He made it sound like we were going to sneak around an abandoned theater, not some century-old library that seemed one rule away from a meltdown.

“And you’re all about setting the stage.”

“When I want something, you’re damn right.”

“And what is it that you want, Damon?”

His eyes blazed watching me, but his voice lowered and brushed against my ear. “Docents and juniors are all super busy playing shepherd. The coast is clear enough,” he nods, “follow once you’re sure you’re not being watched.”

“And what if that never happens?”

He laughed, low, warm, honest. “You’re far too creative for that… besides, you want to go as much as I want you there.”

The way he said it was unfair. Criminal. The kind of tone someone used right before stealing something expensive.

“You’re dangerous.”

“And you like that.” It was a statement of fact. We both knew it. My stomach betrayed me… too warm, too aware, too willing. “If someone asks, you’re browsing biographies.”

He didn’t leave dramatically… just slid into the corridor with quiet confidence and casual indifference, disappearing between two clusters of guests.

I waited. The tick tick tick behind me punctuated every minute I delayed. One minute. Two. Three. I checked reflections, imagined shadows, and watched staff patterns without even realizing I was doing it. Habit.

No one was watching. No one was trailing when I made a slow perimeter stroll.

Good.

I slipped after him. No more hesitation. No second-guessing. I just moved, determinedly… gaining a steadiness I hadn’t felt with any deep breath I’d taken at any other point that morning.

His pace was so casual when I first came upon him, resting every few steps as if he were examining the selection of books along his route for something of interest. He didn’t look back right away, even though I knew instinctively when he spotted me. His stride adjusted gradually, and every few steps, he’d angle his head, confirming I was still approaching from behind. When we were far enough from the flow of guests, he slowed until I could walk beside him.

The hallway curved, familiar enough after traveling this route earlier with Asher. But it was different now. It stretched long and echoing, dimmer than earlier now that the sun had shifted on its axis outside the huge arced windows. The memory of the morning tainted the beauty of the dark wood and quieter halls. The paintings watching from the walls filled me with trepidation. I wasn’t sure of the direction to the catacombs, but Damon walked like a man with a purpose, never doubting that the floor would exist under his feet no matter what.

We continued directly toward the 800s, and my stomach coiled into knots. The Fiction wing. Odd déjà vu prickled against my skin, the air shifting in temperature the same way it had earlier with Ash. Cooler. Heavier. Like being watched by something that didn’t need eyes.

That’s when I first noticed, slight at first, then more pronounced. Water. Little glimmers, tiny distortions. At first, moisture. Then streaks. Then puddles. Both of us seemed to slow down at the same time.

“What the hell…”

Damon didn’t stop walking. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

I decided to keep my opinion to myself, all while the level slowly started to rise. By the time we reached the curved archway marked FICTION - 800’s, the floor was definitely wet. A thin sheen at first, like a spill from a mop bucket. Then it grew. A visible ripple. A small wave when my shoe pressed down. It glistened like a mirror, then deeper and deeper still until it climbed to my ankles.

The water was flowing from deeper inside the 800s, toward us, like a lazy indoor river. Not fast. But wrong.

“Flooding is not impressive.” I finally determined.

Damon glanced back at me with a mix of triumph and disbelief, as though he’d expected a mess but not a miniature biblical event.

“Well,” he muttered, “this is new.”

“You think?” I almost laughed, if I wasn’t despising the feel of my socks slooshing around in drenched leather boots. “What do you think happened here?”

“Bad plumbing?” I gave him a skeptical look. “Let’s find out.”

I wanted to shake my head, Ash’s warning shouting into my skull now, but I followed, like a bat out of hell.

As we rounded the bend into the heart of the Fiction wing, two diligent docents came into view… each frantically mopping. Their shoes squeaked. Their expressions were fraught. Their attempts were… hilariously ineffective. I suppose it was a valiant effort, but futile… the water just seemed to slosh around them and grow, collecting dust and debris that it’d gathered as it swarmed from one corner of the room and hall to the other.

One suddenly looked up and spotted the two of us. Her smile froze on her face like someone had stapled it there.

“Oh! Good afternoon… guests,” she said with a painfully strained brightness. “This particular wing is currently being—ah—renovated.”

Damon whispered, “Renovated?” like it was the best joke he’d heard all day.

The docent’s smile tightened two millimeters as she rushed towards us, splattering water all along the paneled walls and bookshelves.

“Yes. Renovated. You can’t be here,” she said quickly. “A temporary setback. Please… this way.”

She herded us with agitated, hurried motions, with the enthusiasm of someone trying to hide a body. When we finally reached the end of the flooded hall and stepped back onto dry marble, she exhaled with theatrical relief. “Please return to the common areas. We’ll have this resolved shortly.”

“Sure you will,” Damon laughed under his breath.

She either didn’t hear or had lost all patience to deal with guests at this point. She simply nodded and fled back into the watery chaos we’d just escaped.

“You’re terrible.” I finally choked out once we were alone.

“Me?” he said, flicking water off his cuff, “She didn’t even offer us towels for the inconvenience.”

I snorted. “We wouldn’t need towels if you hadn’t led us into a flood.”

“You followed.”

“You wanted me too.” I laughed.

“Yes.”

I looked for playfulness but only found candor and a heat that read like something else entirely. The tension charged instantly and snapped right back to its usual voltage.

“And you owe me,” he added lightly, like it was nothing. “Remember?”

My stomach dipped. The wager from yesterday. The one I still didn’t know how to feel about.

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“Good. Because I’ve decided what I want.”

My breath snagged. “Oh?”

His smile returned… wicked, warm, dangerous.

“I want twenty uninterrupted minutes of your company,” he said softly. “No docents. No juniors. No disasters. Just you.”

“Twenty minutes?” I gave an exacerbated sigh. “Talk about ruining a girl's fantasies.”

His wicked grin was devastatingly distracting. Resembling, too closely, exactly what I wanted at that very moment.

“I’d never want to be accused of ruining a beautiful woman’s dreams.”

He extended his hand… not touching, but hovering close enough to feel the invitation.

And damn it all… I took it.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN - "ERRATA" - DONE

Dinner should have felt normal.

By all reasonable metrics, it did. Reasonable… or repeatable. The same glowing candles illuminated the hall, exquisite dishes and cutlery brandished by cheerful guests, being catered to by staff with almost military precision. The kind of refined hum that said civilized people were doing civilized things.

I wasn’t sure I fell into that sort of category, never on a regular day. This wasn’t my sort of event. Or crowd. Or the environment. I’d slipped my way in, and now the edges were starting to come unfurled.

I did honestly expect to feel a bit more rattled after everything that occurred during most of that day. Instead, I was almost calm. Damon had a way of sanding down my nerves, of turning fear into adrenaline and adrenaline into something far more pleasurable. Twenty minutes had come and gone long before I slipped from behind the locked door of his room, and that time had done more for my stress levels than a week of yoga ever could.

And I actually thought that the secret moments had rightened everything. I felt looser. Lighter. Less like a live wire and more like myself. The self I knew how to wield.

Until the rumors started.

They didn’t come all at once, of course. They never do. They drifted in like cigarette smoke from a neighboring table: soft, insidious, impossible to ignore once you caught the first curl.

“…swear to God, it was a river in 813. There was even…”

“A raft. She said there was a raft. Bits of rope. Who even builds a raft in a library?”

A band of laughter floated to my table. Nervous and a little too loud for the lame punchline they were pretending they’d given.

My fork stilled above my plate. 813… the fiction wing. The same direction Damon and I had walked. Same area the water had come from. The docents had mopped like their lives depended on it, but I hadn’t seen any raft. Someone else was claiming that they had, though. Could there have been one before we came along? Could the docents have removed the evidence, or was that part just an elaboration?

Coincidence. It had to be. Pipes burst. People exaggerate.

“...and the bread thing? You didn’t hear about that?” a woman to my left whispered. “Someone actually tried to steal from the kitchen. Bread, of all things. They caught him and instead of throwing him out, they’re ‘finding him a room.’”

Another giggle filled the air, but that one was flat, as if they didn’t even find the outcome desirable in the least.

A room.

I cut my meat a little too sharply, the knife scraping china, making me wince. This place loved its euphemisms. Floods became renovations. Thieves became guests. Uninvited girls in borrowed dresses were suddenly “meant to be here” according to certain silver-eyed men who liked to haunt hallways.

“Did you hear about the kids?”

That came from further down, a murmured thread barely audible over the clink of glass.

“A guest swears she saw a group of children running in 973. When she looked again, they were gone, but there was an extra shadow left on the floor.”

Kids? There weren’t any children at the library that I knew of. That one had to be a lie.

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

Someone shivered dramatically. Someone else called it “overactive imagination.” The table kept eating.

Shadow. Children. Raft. Bread. Rooms.

It felt like somebody was pulling pieces from different puzzles and tossing them into one box.

“And…” this one was delivered with the reverence of real gossip “...Neal Colt was seen near 398 looking… well… translucent. More than usual.”

A few people laughed.

“…that’s not…”

“I’m serious. She said he looked like he’d been half-erased. And no one’s seen Tina Fen since last night.”

My hand tightened around my glass until the stem protested. Floods. Missing people. Ghosts who might not be metaphors. And in the middle of it all, my own private list:

Floating words in the ballroom.
White gaps in Les Misérables.
Wesely’s potatoes hovering like they’d forgotten gravity.
A river bubbling up from the Fiction wing.

And the staff, docents, juniors… always there, always smiling, always smoothing the edges like human erasers.

My brain flicked back, annoyingly, to Damon’s Tatler. The way he’d angled the page. The way the pen disappeared. The way he’d steered my attention with a grin instead of an answer.

I didn’t know if there was anything on that page worth seeing. But I knew he hadn’t wanted me to see it. And suddenly, that felt like its own kind of… something.

“Everything alright, Ms. Bradshaw?”

I jerked at the sound of my false name. A Junior Librarian hovered at my elbow with a bottle of wine and a perfect, unbothered smile.

“Fine,” I said, maybe too quickly. “Just… full.”

Their gaze lingered half a second too long. The smile didn’t crack. “Of course. Do enjoy the rest of the evening.”

They glided away.

I pushed food around my plate, appetite gone. The chatter swelled and dipped around me, but none of it felt like language anymore. Just a soundscape of people refusing to admit they were unnerved.

Maybe most of them weren’t. Maybe I was the only idiot keeping score. Raft. Bread. Children. Transparency. Missing girl. Words. Always words. On pages, in rumors, whispered warnings.

Stay alert.

Ash’s voice threaded through my thoughts, low and unwelcome. I took a swallow of water that did absolutely nothing for the dryness in my throat.

I lasted ten more minutes. Then I excused myself with some flimsy line about needing air and slipped out before anyone could stop me.


~~~~~~⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️~~~~~~~


The hallway outside the dining room was dimmer, cooler, and still too connected for my liking. The noise dulled to a distant thrum the farther I got, like the whole evening was a radio station I’d just turned down instead of off. My heels clicked over marble past framed portraits and numbers gleaming above doorframes.

A staircase curved up just ahead, wide and elegant, splitting the difference between floors. Guests tended to stick to the main routes, the obvious paths, so the landing halfway up was usually empty, a pretty architectural afterthought.

Perfect.

I climbed until I reached it and stopped, leaning one hip against the banister. From there, I could see a slice of the lobby below. The chandeliers glowing, docents drifting to and from sight, the top of someone’s head bent over a book. Up there, though, it was just me, the wallpaper, and the fragrant scent of potted fig trees that served as a bit of a floral curtain at my back. The soft tick of some hidden clock marked out a rhythm my chest refused to match.

I braced my palms on the railing and closed my eyes for a moment.

“Okay,” I murmured to myself. “Let’s take stock. Again.”

But repeating the words, the thoughts, the questions… none of it added up to anything. Or maybe it did, and I just didn’t have the right equation. It just felt so far above my head, and I was paddling uselessly, trying to avoid sinking under the weight of it all.

I huffed a humorless laugh.

“God, get a damn grip, girl…”

“Careful,” a voice called just behind me, quiet and close enough to cut through every stray thought at once. I didn’t need to look back; that tone was etched like a blade along my spine. “You’re thinking too loudly.”

I steeled myself before I looked back, slowly twisting my head, then my body. That I had the presence of mind to achieve such a casual stance when everything in me was rioting in every direction at once was the real achievement.

Ash stood, like a giant, towering halfway up the next stretch of stairs, one hand on the banister, his expression carved in shadow. The low light from the nearby sconces caught in his eyes, turning them from soft gray to something sharper. Something sinister. Not in a nefarious kind of way… in the kind of way that would tempt the devil right from hell.

“How long have you been lurking there?” I demanded, disappointed by the sharpness of my tone. I wanted nothing more than to give him absolutely nothing to pick up on.

“Long enough to hear you mutter at the wallpaper.” He started toward the landing, steps slow, distinct. Direct. He clearly had no intention of avoiding me. “And to wonder whether you were trying to pick a fight with it.”

I tilted my head slowly, narrowing my gaze. “A joke… have you had too much to drink tonight, then?”

A small grin tugged at his lips. Instantly, I was off balance. As if the rest of the evening wasn’t already trying to throw me into a tizzy. Of course, the universe wasn’t done testing me today.

“Just enough, I think.”

He reached the landing and halted a few feet from me, blocking the descent without a word. It felt intentional in a way that prickled along my spine. The space between us shifted, darkened; close enough that the faint, aquatic scent of him brushed my senses, and I saw the wet sheen at his hairline, like he’d stepped out of a shower and straight into my path.

“Well, don’t let me keep you… you appear late to supper.”

“It can wait.” I didn’t want it to wait… or him. I started to feel claustrophobic just from his nearness. It curled heat low in my stomach, the one that only reacted this way to him… stirred awake like it had been waiting for the cue.

“Why?”

God, the bitterness was so humiliating. I gritted my teeth, praying silently for the strength to resist showing another ounce of emotion to this man.

“Someone has to keep tabs on you…”

So much for restraint. “Oh… and you’ve decided to take up the crusade?” I turned the rest of the way, standing straighter, shoulders back, battle stance. “Spare me the hero act!”

“Ah… so you can set targets but no one else can, is that it?”

My stomach dropped. Then flipped. Then burned and dropped again.

“Spare me your condemnation.” I scoffed loudly. Too loudly. “Can’t you find another hall to patrol and someone else’s mischief to disapprove of?”

The corner of his mouth twitched again, evil and mercilessly tormenting. At least, that is what I decided to read into it. “Believe it or not, I don’t schedule my evening around disapproving of you.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Sometimes,” he said, “you do a very good job of putting yourself in my way.”

“The stairs kept going straight down from the ones you were on…”

“But then,” he said in the calmest tone imaginable, “how could I disapprove of the mischief you’ve been up to?”

Our eyes locked, his steady, but there was something else there, a burn potentially as dark as the one I felt igniting in mine. My nostrils flared and my jaw ticked as I struggled to maintain the fracture of sanity this man was trying to steal away.

“What… exactly, is it that you think I have done?”

He watched me for a moment like he was weighing how much to say, then stepped in closer. Crowding me… my lower back mashed against the railing, but I tipped my chin to look him square in the eye.

“This morning,” he said, “you followed me where you shouldn’t have. Today you went somewhere with him you definitely shouldn’t have.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “How deep are you planning to wade before you remember you can drown?”

Anger flared, hot and immediate.

“You don’t get to lecture me,” I snapped. “Not you. You took me into that wing, remember? You used me to find that book, then manipulated me when I had served my purpose.”

He cocked his head to the side, but his eyes dropped to my lips as if he had to watch the fire spitting from them. “Is that what you think I did?”

“Think?” I hissed. “You closed the book, then you used… whatever this is between us… to make me forget what I was looking at.”

“So…” he said softly, suddenly setting each of his palms on opposite sides of me against the banister. Effectively trapping me between it and his hard, warm body. “What you’re really upset about is that you got distracted?”

“I just told you what I was upset about… stop trying to change the narrative.” I spit out. “What is wrong with everyone here? Always twisting things, always dodging the truth! Damon with his secrets, Wes with his illusions… you with your cryptic non-answers…”

“I told you,” he cut in, sharp and watchful, “to come to me if you saw something wrong.”

“Oh, that’s rich.” My laugh cracked. “Come rushing to share with a man that can’t even be honest with himself?” I shoved at his chest, but he didn't budge one bit, only serving to piss me off more. “Oh sure, Ash. Just a normal damn day. The library’s a waterpark now and vegetables are defying gravity…”

Something ticked, his jaw tightened ever so slightly… in a way that made me think he was trying to hide it, but his next words just dug right back into my rage, pushing and prodding like he needed to shake me up.

“Maybe if you weren’t so hell-bent on throwing yourself into the center of fire, you wouldn’t have to complain it’s hot.”

“And yet…” My chest heaved slightly, nearly brushing against his. “You are the one flirting with fire here… You could have stayed away. Could have filed me under ‘chaos, do not touch.’ But instead you keep… showing up. Warning me. Standing too damn close.”

Finally, I saw a chink in his armor… but at what cost? I sucked in a sharp breath as those pale eyes raked over me, slow, deliberate, intense, before resting on the swell of my mouth.

“I suppose…” he uttered, “we finally have something in common.”

There was a long pause, dancing with possibility and panic.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want to kiss me.”

His eyes shifted, only slightly, but found my eyes again. “Only when you stop looking at me like you want to do more.”

The truth scraped too close to the surface, hot and humiliating

“I don’t.”

My voice strained, and his eyes read the lie for what it was; my pulse confirmed it.

Ash’s breath left him in something that was almost a laugh, except there was no humor in it—just disbelief. And hunger. And restraint stretched thin enough to tear.

He leaned in, not touching, but close enough that I felt the warmth of his breath across my cheek. My fingers curled against the banister behind me, knuckles white.

“You’re a liar,” he murmured.

“I’m not…”

He shook his head once, barely a movement. “You are.”

The accusation lay bare between us… open, honest. He didn’t seem willing to let me hide beneath it. My chest rose, fell, rose again. Too fast. Too revealing.

“Stop getting that close,” I whispered finally, breaking. “If you’re not going to do anything.”

His eyes shuttered. Not in rejection. There was an attempt at control.

“Don’t tempt me like that,” he said roughly, “Not unless you want the consequences.”

The words punched the air from my lungs.

We froze there, his hands braced beside my hips, his body a breath from mine. The stairwell was so quiet I could hear my own pulse ricocheting through my ribs. Every piece of me trembled. Not with fear, but with wanting.

“Ash…” His name on my tongue felt like surrender. “I’m the greedy one, remember?”

Something hot burned from his gaze. “Maybe I am too.”

But instead of taking action, the infuriating man pushed away, palms dragging from the banister in a slow, reluctant pull. The sudden space between us felt like cold water.

Or, at least, I wished it did.

He stepped back, one small distance at a time.

“Stay alert,” he reminded me again, then turned and walked away.

Again.

For the third damn time. I thought of baseball and wished that meant he was out. But I stood frozen on that landing, breathing shallow, hands shaking, lips tingling from a kiss that hadn’t even happened.

And somehow, the absence of it felt far more dangerous than anything else I could imagine at that moment.

LOOK:
DAYTIME                                          EVENING


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