Chapter 20: Chapter 20: A demanding past
"Chrissy?"
He turned before he could stop himself.
She was standing under the path lamp, light sliding like liquid over her dress. Satin the color of champagne clung and shimmered with every small movement; the knot at her waist pulled the fabric into soft folds that fluttered around her ankles. Flats peeked out from beneath the hem, a tiny, practical betrayal of the image she’d clearly dressed for.
Clara.
She had her blonde hair swept into the same loose waves he remembered, earrings winking like tiny hooks when she tilted her head. Her expression was exactly as he’d left it years ago: a pout built to look like innocence, eyes flicking past him toward the manor as if she could already taste its warmth.
"Figures," Chris muttered under his breath. "Of course you’re here."
"Don’t be like that," she said, stepping closer, the soft soles of her flats making no sound on the gravel. "You look... busy." Her gaze dipped over his server’s jacket, the corners of her mouth curling. "Still working your way into the good rooms, huh?"
Chris slid his phone back into his pocket, keeping his face neutral even as his pulse thumped harder. "Still trying to get in through somebody else’s arm, huh?"
Her pout deepened into a small, knowing smile. "Come on, Chrissy. You’re already in the main hall. You could walk me in. One little favor. You owe me."
He huffed a laugh that had no humor in it. "I don’t owe you a damn thing."
But she was already moving closer, satin catching the garden lights, eyes bright with calculation. "Please," she murmured, hand brushing his sleeve like a casual touch. "Just for tonight. You know I’d look perfect on your arm."
"Why not?" Her voice sharpened like a knife dragged across glass. "What is so hard about doing me a small favor?" She shifted closer, flats whispering over the gravel, her satin skirt swishing like liquid metal. "Just take me with you and I won’t talk to you again." Her eyes locked on his like he was some mythical creature holding the gates to paradise.
Chris almost laughed. ’Right. And I’m the lich now. Perfect. Then again, she really has a knack for making anyone feel bad for her.’
He remembered the first months with her, back when she’d been all soft smiles and patient hands, decent enough to make him think maybe, just maybe, he’d stumbled into something normal. That was before she learned he wasn’t one of the noble Maleks but a worthless, estranged offshoot. Before the softness turned into sharp questions about invitations, allowances, who he knew, and what he could get her into.
And here she was again, dressed like a goddess in discount shoes, reaching for him as if he were still her ticket.
He eased her hand off his sleeve, fingers firm but polite, eyes flicking once more to the hedge-line shadows where security waited. "Clara," he said quietly, steel under the softness now, "you don’t want to be where I’m going tonight. Trust me."
"Trust you?" Her voice went thin and sharp, her satin dress shimmering as she stepped in closer. "You think you’re too good for me now? Playing secret agent with a tray of drinks?" She let out a brittle laugh. "You’re still nothing, Chrissy. Just a waiter with a famous surname you don’t even deserve."
Chris kept his expression neutral, though his pulse ticked hard in his neck. "Go back inside, Clara. Enjoy the free champagne. Don’t do this."
"Do what?" she snapped, pitch rising. "Beg? Ask for one little favor? I stood by you before, remember? And now you can’t even walk me into a room?"
She lifted a hand, palm flashing pale in the garden lights. For a second it looked like she might brush his cheek, then her fingers curled, and it turned into a short, angry swipe aimed at his face.
Chris shifted back just enough. The strike cut the air an inch from his jaw and met nothing but the faint whisper of his jacket.
He caught her wrist lightly before she could try again, not squeezing, just holding it still. His voice stayed low. "Don’t."
The sound of approaching footsteps broke the moment. One of the organisers, headset, clipboard, and expression locked somewhere between harried and horrified, hustled down the path toward them.
"Malek," the woman said briskly, ignoring Clara completely. "Break’s over. You’re needed in the main hall now."
Chris released Clara’s wrist at once, stepping back, professionalism sliding over him like a mask. "Yes, ma’am."
Two security men appeared a heartbeat later from the hedge line, silent but solid. "This way, miss," one of them said to Clara in a tone that wasn’t a suggestion.
"What? You can’t..." Clara started, but the satin hem of her dress caught on the gravel as she stumbled, forced to adjust her steps as they ushered her toward the perimeter gate.
Chris didn’t wait to see how it ended. He gave Clara one last neutral look, then turned on his heel and walked back toward the service door, the organizer already moving ahead of him. Behind him Clara’s voice rose, indignant and sharp, but it was quickly swallowed by the calm, immovable weight of security closing around her.
The door shut on the garden with a soft thud, cutting off the cool night air. Heat and noise slammed back into him: music swelling, crystal clinking, and the perfume-thick atmosphere of the hall settling over his skin like a damp cloth. He exhaled hard through his nose, letting the mask slip back into place.
His feet screamed in the shoes, each step like walking on hot nails. ’Two more hours,’ he told himself grimly, jaw tight. ’Two more hours and then I can soak these blisters in ice and sleep for a week.’
He snagged a tray from a passing cart without breaking stride and merged with the flow of servers, slipping between guests and tables with practiced invisibility. Around him the chandeliers dripped light like molten glass, the crowd was a swirl of cream and gold, and at the center dais Dax still sat like a carved pillar of calm, violet eyes unreadable.
Chris forced a steady breath, the tray balanced perfectly despite the fire in his heels. ’Just keep moving, Malek. Keep moving until it’s over. Maybe he would forget about you until then.’