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Sharp. Reckless.

Fine. If he’s watching, let him really watch.

I stop at the center of the runway, holding the pose a beat longer than necessary as flashes from cameras go off around me, before gradually turning, giving him my back as the music changes into a faster rhythm.

And then… I drop. Straight into a split. The chains cascade around my hips, sliding, catching the light, drawing every eye in the room. The crowd erupts, the sound crashing over me in waves of cheers and applause.

Lights flash in cold blues and deep purples, painting me in contrasts as I push myself back up, slow and sensual.

This time, I don’t look back.

I can’t.

I finish the walk without another glance in his direction, reaching the end of the runway where I hold the final pose, letting the smile appear on my lips one last time before I turn and disappear backstage.

The moment I’m off the stage, the expression drops.

I rip the tiara from my head, my fingers moving quickly, almost urgently, and I head straight toward the bathroom without stopping, without looking at anyone.

I need to change.

The event is a success. My part here is done.

Now I just have to escape.

FIFTEEN

Ethan

What the actual fuck was that?

I arrived just when the parade was starting. I didn’t step past the doorway; I stayed in the shadows at the back, trying to watch the show.

Truth is, I rarely pay attention to anyone. At work, I look and speak to people only when I have to. Today I forced myself to focus, had my little mental top three ready for the judging, and for a minute, I actually wanted to be present.

Then she walked out.

I’m already half-dead from sleepless nights and two weeks of flying from city to city, sometimes from continent to continent. I landed in London this morning and came straight here. I’m wasted, bone-tired, and the last thing I wanted was to be at a costume contest.

But I made an exception. I wanted to see how it turned out, to give a speech at the end as the CEO, say a few words of thanks, then retreat to the top-floor apartment and collapse. That was the plan.

When the last woman on stage stepped forward and the lights snapped onto her, my jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

What the hell was she wearing? Nearly nothing, that’s what.

I could see her breasts, the same breasts I’d kissed and tasted and thought about like some addict. And, like a junkie, all I could imagine was doing it again.

Not just her breasts. Everything.

The panties she wore covered almost nothing, a single tiny triangle, so with each step, each turn, she revealed more.

Fucking hell, Thalia.

I didn’t take my eyes off her.

I watched the exact moment she saw me, her posture changing, the breath in her chest hitched, and then something shifted in her, a spark appeared in her gaze.

I felt it a mile off, she was about to do something intentional, something meant to provoke.