Chapter 3: First Dance with the Devil

Chapter 3: First Dance with the Devil

The two days leading up to the gala were a cold war fought across the sterile expanse of the penthouse. They moved around each other with the wary precision of two opposing magnets, the space between them charged with unspoken animosity. They drilled their cover story, Alexander and Isabelle Blackwood, until the lies felt like a second skin. Evie worked, burying herself in data on the gala’s guest list, creating a mental map of allegiances, rivalries, and vulnerabilities. Damien worked out, a punishing, silent routine of physical exertion that seemed to be his only way of managing the coiled chaos within him. He was a caged panther, and Evie was the unwelcome warden of his gilded prison.

On the night of the gala, the tension was a palpable thing. Damien stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking impossibly sharp and dangerous in a tailored black suit that made him look less like an investment banker and more like a high-class hitman. He checked his watch, his impatience radiating off him in waves.

“Isabelle,” he called out, the name still sounding foreign and clipped in his mouth. “Croft isn’t going to wait all night for you to finish colour-coding your shoes. Let’s go.” He expected the same woman he’d been sparring with for days—sharp, intelligent, but wound in a tight knot of blazers and sensible blouses.

A soft click of a heel on marble made him turn. And for the first time since they’d met, Damien Cross was silent.

The woman who stepped out of the bedroom was not Dr. Evelyn Reed, FBI analyst. This was Isabelle Blackwood. Her brown hair, usually pulled back in an efficient tie, was down, styled in soft, elegant waves that cascaded over her bare shoulders. She wore a dress the color of midnight, a sheath of dark silk that poured over her body, hinting at the slender, athletic frame beneath. It was sophisticated and stunningly simple, slit high on one thigh. Her glasses were gone, revealing the full, startling intensity of her hazel eyes, now accentuated with a subtle smokiness. She carried herself with a newfound, liquid grace, a quiet confidence that had nothing to do with data and everything to do with the woman she had become for the night.

Damien’s eyes swept over her, a slow, involuntary appraisal that was entirely different from his earlier, insulting once-over. The usual mockery was absent from his expression, replaced by a raw, unguarded stillness. He saw the gentle curve of her collarbone, the smooth line of her back, the way the dress clung to her hips. He’d mocked her for being wound tight, for being a ‘nerd’, but this woman… this woman was a weapon of a different sort.

“You’ll do,” he said finally, his voice a low rasp. It was meant to be a dismissal, but it came out rough, strained.

A small, knowing smile touched Evie’s lips. It was the smile of Isabelle Blackwood. “I’m so glad I meet with your approval, Alexander,” she purred, gliding past him. The scent of her perfume, something subtle and complex with notes of jasmine and sandalwood, trailed in her wake, invading his space. “Shall we?”

The ballroom was a dazzling spectacle of obscene wealth. Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling like frozen waterfalls, casting prismatic light over a sea of tuxedos and designer gowns. The air hummed with the murmur of a hundred powerful conversations and the clinking of champagne flutes. It was a hunting ground, and at its center, holding court with an easy, predatory grace, was Julian Croft. He was handsome in a polished, ageless way, his smile radiating a warmth that didn't quite reach his cold, observant eyes.

As they entered, Damien’s hand instinctively went to the small of her back. The touch was a requirement of their cover, a public display of ownership and affection. But the moment his palm made contact with the bare skin revealed by the low cut of her dress, a jolt of pure heat shot up his arm. Her skin was impossibly soft. She stiffened for a fraction of a second before relaxing into his hold, playing her part.

“Easy, darling,” he murmured, his lips close to her ear, the words a vibration against her skin. “You’re supposed to like it.”

“I’m acting,” she whispered back, her voice cool, but he felt the tremor that ran through her.

They began to circulate, a portrait of success and devotion. It was here that Evie’s worth transformed from theoretical to tangible. Damien was a master of reading a room for threats, for exits, for weapons. Evie read the room for information.

“Man in the Brioni suit, two o’clock,” she murmured, her voice a soft caress against his ear as she leaned in, pretending to share a secret. “That’s Councilman Davies. Croft’s pet politician. Notice how he keeps touching his breast pocket? He’s carrying a burner phone, and he’s nervous. Croft must be pressuring him for something tonight.”

Damien’s gaze flickered. He would have dismissed the man as another political sycophant.

“The woman in red talking to Croft now,” Evie continued a few minutes later, her fingers lightly tracing a pattern on his suit lapel. “That’s Maria Fuentes, CEO of a shipping logistics company. Publicly, they’re competitors. But look at their feet. They’re angled toward each other, a classic sign of rapport and trust. My analysis suggests her company is the primary mover for his illicit goods.”

Damien glanced at her, truly seeing her. This wasn’t data from a screen. This was live, actionable intelligence. His lone-wolf instincts, honed over years of solo operations, would have missed these subtleties. Her analytical mind, which he had dismissed as a liability, was a finely tuned scanner picking up signals he couldn't even see. She wasn’t just playing her part; she was running a parallel operation right under his nose.

Then, the orchestra shifted from a lively concerto to a slow, sweeping waltz. Couples began to drift onto the marble dance floor. Evie saw Croft’s eyes slide over to them, a brief, calculating glance.

“We have to,” she said, her voice tight.

Damien’s jaw hardened, but he nodded. “Come on.”

He led her onto the floor, pulling her into his arms. One hand settled firmly on her back, splaying across the bare skin, his thumb drawing a slow, deliberate circle. Her hand rested hesitantly on his broad shoulder, and their other hands clasped together. They were closer now than they had ever been, the entire length of their bodies separated by only a few layers of silk and wool. The space crackled.

He was a surprisingly graceful dancer, leading her through the steps with an assured strength. Evie’s heart hammered against her ribs. She was acutely aware of the hard muscle of his chest, the warmth of his breath ghosting across her temple, the sheer, overwhelming physical presence of him. This was no longer Alexander and Isabelle. This was Damien and Evie, stripped of their armor, caught in a dangerous current.

He leaned in, his mouth so close to her ear that his lips brushed against the sensitive shell. His voice was a low, confusing mix of gravel and silk.

“You clean up surprisingly well, Doc,” he whispered, the old insult a familiar reflex. But then his tone shifted, losing its mocking edge. “That intel on Fuentes and Davies… that was sharp. Keep your eyes open. You’re more useful out here than I thought.”

The backhanded praise sent a dizzying spiral of confusion through her. It was a concession, an admission of her worth, but wrapped in the sandpaper of his arrogance. Before she could process it, he pulled her a fraction of an inch closer, the heat between them intensifying.

“But don’t get used to this,” he murmured, his voice dropping again, becoming hard and clipped. “The dress, the dancing… it’s a costume. Don’t forget what you are, and don’t forget what I am.”

It was a warning. To her, or to himself, she wasn’t sure.

The song ended. For a moment, they remained frozen, caught in the echo of the music and the thick, unspoken tension between them. Then he released her, and the cold air of the ballroom rushed into the space where his warmth had been. The spell was broken.

As they stepped off the dance floor, Evie’s gaze met Julian Croft’s from across the room. He raised his champagne flute to them, a small, approving smile playing on his lips.

They had passed the test. But as Evie stood beside the silent, stormy man she was pretending to love, she realized they had just walked into a much more dangerous trap. The line between the mission and the truth had just been blurred by a single dance, and she had the terrifying feeling it might never be sharp again.