Chapter 7 - Maisie

“We’re engaged,” says Zane.

My breath stutters. In a single moment, I experience a towering force of emotion; a million things at once rush through me. Engaged?

The lights are so bright and hot in here. I’m lightheaded. Nausea curls in my gut. The man Zane’s speaking to, some investor from the city, is nodding his approval, but it’s as if I can barely see him in the haze. “A beautiful couple like yourselves, it makes sense. Congratulations.”

Zane smiles smoothly, the perfect mask of charm and control. Meanwhile, I feel like I’m about to crack.

Then again, I’ve been about to crack all week.

It’s my own fault. I didn’t anticipate this would be so difficult.

The condo in Stratfell is nothing like my cozy apartment in Rosecreek. It’s all clean lines, smooth surfaces, and expensive materials that give it a cold, impersonal air. When we first moved in, it seemed to hit me like a curse; the chill of it settled in my bones and stuck there. The living room is sleek and decorated with chrome and glass, like something out of a design magazine. It feels like it belongs to someone else. Someone who wouldn’t blink at the price of the silk curtains or the marble countertops. Someone who wouldn’t blink at pretending to be engaged to a man who barely speaks to her.

Zane and I have been there for a week now, moving around each other in near silence. We’ve been living like ghosts, inhabiting the same space but hardly interacting. His bedroom is on one side of the condo, mine on the other. Separated by a yawning void of distance—just like us.

Before I can gather my thoughts or even begin to think of something to say, Zane’s hand is on my waist, steering me away from the conversation and toward the drinks table. His grip is firm, his movements purposeful, and it takes everything in me to keep up the facade. Once we’re out of earshot, I pull away from him, my voice low and sharp.

“What the hell, Zane?” I hiss, barely managing to keep my voice down. “Engaged? You didn’t think to tell me we were changing our cover story?”

He pours himself a drink, taking his time, like I haven’t just confronted him. His jaw clenches for a split second before he responds, voice flat and unbothered by my anger. “It’s what they expect. It fits. You need to get your head in the game.”

Get my head in the game? My pulse races, anger bubbling under my skin.

“My head’s in the game,” I snap under my breath. “But maybe if you bothered to communicate with me, I wouldn’t have been blindsided in the middle of a mission.”

He sets down his glass, turning to face me fully now, his eyes hard. He leans in close so as not to be overheard, but his voice seems so loud in my ears when he says: “You’re overreacting.”

The dismissiveness in his tone makes my heart squeeze painfully, though I don’t know why I expected anything else.

Sometimes, in the quiet moments between the fake laughter and the dazzling swatches of light, I lose myself these days. The longer this fake relationship goes on, the harder it is to separate what’s real about him and what’s part of the act. The more intimate we’re forced to be in front of others, the more it feels like I’m losing touch with the real Zane altogether. I have found myself realizing a few times in the past week that I’m not certain I know him at all.

“Don’t do that,” I say, my voice quieter now but still simmering with frustration. “Don’t act like it’s not a big deal how I feel.”

He opens his mouth to reply, but before he can say anything, a voice interrupts us.

“Trouble in paradise?”

I turn, my breath still shaky from the argument, trying to gather myself, searching for our interloper.

A tall, slender man stands nearby, champagne flute in one hand, the picture of nonchalance. He seems young, but his hair is silver and neatly combed back. His dark suit is tailored to perfection. He looks like he belongs here, among the wealthy and powerful, but there’s something about his eyes—the intensity of a killer. I don’t know how, but I know it and feel it acutely.

Zane steps forward before I can react, slipping back into his role like it’s second nature. He puts on that easy smile again, the one that makes him look like he’s completely in control. The smile I have come to despise.

“You know how it is,” he says, his tone light. “Just the usual bumps that come with planning a wedding. We’ve yet to come to an agreement about where the in-laws have to be seated such that they’ll get along.”

The man’s thin smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He laughs, and I hate the sound.

“Of course. I understand.” He sips his champagne. I see no ring on his finger. His gaze sticks to me like glue; I feel it seeping into the cracks of me. “It takes a wedding to bring out the worst in us.”

It takes that for it to hit me just who this man is, and then I feel like a complete idiot.

This man is one of the two marks at this party from the Haverwood pack. An enemy outright and the reason we’re here at all. Now that I can see his face, I remember him: he was at the gala last week, what now feels like a million years ago. I remember him underlit by the light in the hearth, crackling with implosive charisma, as if he, too, could catch alight at any moment and spread to consume the entire building.

Zane doesn’t miss a beat. “Well, if the worst of us is a few nasty aunts and uncles, I think we’re going to be alright,” he says with a light chuckle, reaching for my hand and squeezing it painfully hard. I know a cue when I feel one.

I force a smile. This man doesn’t know who we really are—at least, not yet—but he’s probing, testing the cracks in our story. He suspects us. He must know I’m the weak link, too. His gaze bears an intensity unrivaled even by anyone else in this room, picking me apart. My heart pounds in my chest as I meet his eye. I try to hold his stare.

He looks away first. His eyes flicker between us, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s about to call us out. But then he nods, that cold, thin smile still playing on his lips. “Well, I hope your evening smooths out. It would be such a shame if your engagement were overshadowed by any... unnecessary drama.”

Zane keeps his tone casual, though I can sense the tension in his posture.

“We appreciate the concern. If you’ll excuse us,” he says, his hand returning to the small of my back, gently guiding me away from the man and toward the balcony doors.

As the room seems to rotate like a funhouse around us, I struggle to keep my balance. My head spins. I have to forcibly straighten my back, sucking in oxygen, trying to hold myself together a few moments longer.

The cool night air hits me like an electric shock. I breathe it in, grateful for a moment of clarity after the suffocating heat inside but nonetheless almost immediately shivering. This strapless red dress leaves my shoulders completely bare. The sky above is pitch black, and the balcony is bathed in golden light streaming out from the antechamber. We haven’t even eaten yet. I can’t touch food right now; I feel sick with anxiety.

Zane lets the high glass doors close behind us. His hand stays on the small of my back, warm fingers lingering on my spine, and suddenly, I hate it. I don’t understand why, but I can’t stand him touching me for a single moment longer.

I whip around to face him, shaking off his touch.

“What the hell was that?” I demand, my voice low but sharp. “I meant what I said. You can’t do that to me. You can’t expect me to read your mind.”

Zane’s eyes flash with frustration. “We’re in the middle of a mission, Maisie. I don’t have time to hold your hand and explain every little thing.”

“Hold my hand?” I snap, my voice rising before I catch myself and lower it again. “I don’t need you to hold my hand. I need you to treat me like your partner instead of pushing me aside every time something doesn’t go according to your plan.”

He steps toward me, his expression hard. “I’m keeping us alive. I’m saying what I need to say. You need to get over whatever personal issues you have with this and focus.”

I scoff, shaking my head. My hands fly out in front of me. If he comes any closer, I’ll be backed up against the stone barrier. The night seems to loom huge around us, pressing in, and I am suddenly even more claustrophobic than I was inside. My face is hot. I must look like the absolute picture of the distressed, logistically overwhelmed fiancée.

“‘Personal issues’? Are you serious right now?! This is about you shutting me out and expecting me to just fall in line with whatever you want,” I spit. “You didn’t even bother to tell me we might need to change our cover story! You’re using this whole mission as an excuse to keep me at arm’s length.”

Zane’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, he doesn’t say anything. The silence between us stretches, consuming space. I am a million miles away from him again.

Finally, Zane speaks, his voice low and controlled. “That’s not what this is—”

“Yes, it is!” I cut him off, my voice trembling with anger and something else I can’t quite name. The only thing in the world worse than arguing with him is not speaking to him at all. “You’ve been doing it since we got here. Hell, you’ve been doing it since the lake, and I’m tired of it, Zane. I’m tired of feeling like you don’t want me here, but at the same time, you won’t let me leave your side, and you won’t let me have a say in anything we do.”

His eyes darken, his fists clenched at his sides, and for a moment, I think he’s going to lash out. “This isn’t about what I want.”

I swallow hard, feeling the sting of those words as they settle deep in my chest. For some reason, it’s worse than if he’d just admitted to pushing me away. I take a breath, fighting back the lump in my throat.

“You’re right,” I say, my voice softer now, bitter. “It’s not about what you want. Because it’s not like you would ever really want me.”

The words slip out before I can stop them or even think about them. As soon as I hear them in my own head, I wish I could take them back.

But it’s too late.

The night air swirls like a spell around us. Zane’s expression changes, his eyes narrowing in disbelief, and for the first time tonight, I see something real behind the mask he’s been wearing: I see him shudder with the force of my words. I want to cling to the reality of that moment, the fact that he’s really here. I want to drag him into the light and hold him there.

Then, the moment passes, and we are two strangers standing on a balcony, hardly seeing each other, overlooking a long, dark drop.