Chapter 127: Familiar Stranger

Leitana stared up at the stranger who was practically invading her personal space. Her back, mostly her ass, was pressed firmly against the champagne table, the edge biting into the soft curve of her hips. He was so close that if she leaned forward even a fraction, their bodies would be flush together. Tall. Huge. Broad shoulders filling out a black tuxedo like it was made for sin. A white mask covered his eyes, silk, pristine, stark against his sharp features. Beautiful in a way that made her chest ache. And there was something… familiar. The set of his jaw. The way he tilted his head. The low, rumbling timbre of his presence.

Her face flushed hot.

She swallowed, trying to remember her role. Madame Élodie Duval. Eccentric French billionaire. French only.

“Reculez, s’il vous plaît,” she managed in French, voice soft but firm. “Vous êtes trop près.” (Step back, please. You’re too close.)

He didn’t move.

Not even an inch.

Instead, a slow, predatory smile curved his lips.

“Vous parlez français comme si vous étiez née dedans,” he murmured, voice deep, velvet-wrapped steel. “Et pourtant… vous tremblez.” (You speak French like you were born to it. And yet… you’re trembling.)

Leitana’s breath caught.

That voice.

That low, possessive rumble she knew better than her own heartbeat.

That’s mi Ravial voice.

Her eyes widened behind the mask.

It was him.

Ravial.

Here.

In a white mask instead of his usual blindfold.

Flirting with her.

Her husband, her husband—was standing inches away, leaning into her like she was a stranger he wanted to devour, and he didn’t even know it was her.

Anger and hurt crashed through her in a hot, confusing wave.

He was flirting with another woman.

Even though it was her.

He didn’t recognize her.

He didn’t know his own wife.

Tears pricked her eyes, sharp, sudden, stinging.

She wanted to slap him.

She wanted to cry.

She wanted to kiss him until he remembered.

Instead, she lifted her chin still playing the part, still speaking only French.

“Vous êtes très audacieux, monsieur,” she said, voice trembling just enough to betray her. “Je ne suis pas ici pour… ça.” (You’re very bold, sir. I’m not here for… that.)

His smile widened, slowly, but still predatory.

“Vraiment?” (Really?)

He leaned closer, close enough that she could smell him. His aftershave mixed with his own natural musk.

“Pourtant, vous n’avez pas reculé.” (Yet you haven’t stepped back.)

Her heart slammed so hard she thought it might bruise her ribs.

He was right.

She hadn’t.

She couldn’t.

Even angry, even hurt, she wanted him closer.

He corked his head, studying her through the mask like he could see straight into her soul.

“Dansez avec moi,” he said softly. (Dance with me.)

Leitana opened her mouth to say no, pure annoyance flashing through her.

But then the thought hit her like lightning.

He didn’t know it was her.

He was flirting with her.

He was touching her.

And he thought she was someone else.

A wicked, petty, jealous little idea bloomed.

Payback.

She would dance with him.

Let him hold her.

Let him whisper to her.

Let him want her.

And he wouldn’t even know he was seducing his own wife.

She lifted her chin higher.

“Oui,” she said, voice cool, trying to be slightly coy. “Avec plaisir.” (Yes. With pleasure.)

His smile turned feral.

He extended a hand.

She placed hers in it—small, trembling.

He pulled her gently but firmly away from the table.

Then he wrapped one arm around her waist and yanked her flush against him.

Her breasts crushed against his chest.

Her hips met his.

Her thighs brushed his.

She gasped, soft, involuntary.

He leaned down, lips near her ear.

“Vous tremblez encore,” he murmured. “Nerveuse?” (You’re still trembling. Nervous?)

She swallowed hard, trying to keep her voice steady in French.

“Peut-être… vous êtes intimidant.” (Perhaps… you’re intimidating.)

He chuckled.

“Bon.” (Good.)

He led her to the dance floor.

Bodies pressed tight.

Her heart racing so fast she felt dizzy.

She could feel every inch of him, hard chest, strong arms, the heat of his palm burning through the silk at her waist.

He moved them into the waltz—effortless, commanding.

She followed—stumbling once, then finding the rhythm.

His hand slid lower on her back, his touch possessive.

Her breath hitched.

She looked up at him—mask hiding his eyes, but she knew that jaw. That mouth. That voice.

She asked—soft, in French:

“Quel est votre nom?” (What is your name?)

He leaned closer, lips brushing her temple.

“I’ll keep that to myself for now.”

She forced herself to stay calm—still speaking French.

She nodded.

“Tu as une femme?.” (Do you have a wife?)

He stilled just for a second.

Then he smirked.

“Ma femme?” (My wife?)

He laughed softly, amused.

“Je ne pense pas à elle ce soir.” (I’m not thinking about her tonight.)

Leitana’s breath caught.

Tears burned behind her eyes again.

He didn’t care about his wife.

He didn’t care about her.

Even though she was right here—pressed against him, dancing with him, trembling for him.

He thought she was someone else.

And he was flirting anyway.

Hurt crashed through her, hot, sharp, jealous.

She wanted to scream at him.

She wanted to kiss him until he remembered.

Instead—she smiled behind her mask.

“Alors… vous préférez les inconnues?” (So… you prefer strangers?)

His lips turned up again.

“Seulement quand elles tremblent comme vous.” (Only when they tremble like you.)

His hand slid lower, cupping the curve of her ass through her dress.

She gasped.

He pulled her tighter, their bodies flush until there was no space left.

Her breasts crushed against his chest.

Her hips rocked against his.

She felt him, hard, insistent, pressing against her belly.

Her knees nearly buckled.

He leaned down—lips brushing her ear.

“Vous dansez comme si vous aviez peur de moi,” he whispered. “Et pourtant… vous ne reculez pas.” (You dance like you’re afraid of me. And yet… you don’t pull away.)

Tears pricked her eyes again.

She wanted to tell him.

She wanted to rip the mask off and scream: It’s me. It’s your wife. Look at me.

But she couldn’t.

Not yet.

Instead she lifted her chin.

And whispered back in French, soft, trembling, furious:

“Peut-être que j’aime la peur.” (Perhaps I like the fear.)

Ravial stilled.

Then he laughed, dark, hungry.

“Dangereuse réponse,” he murmured. (Dangerous answer.)

His hand tightened on her ass, still very much possessive.

He spun her, fast, dizzying then pulled her back even harder against him.

Her back to his chest now.

His arm banded around her waist.

His lips at her ear.

“Vous n’avez aucune idée de ce que vous venez de réveiller,” he growled. (You have no idea what you just woke up.)

Leitana’s heart thundered.

She didn’t know whether to cry or kiss him.

So she did neither.

She just danced, her body pressed to his, tears hidden behind her mask, jealousy burning in her chest like fire.

He didn’t know it was her.

And she was furious at him for it.