Chapter 27: Secret garden

BRISELLE’S POV.

The air in the grand ballroom had turned to lead. It wasn't just the heat of a hundred bodies or the cloying, expensive scent of lilies and perfume, it was the pressure. Every time I looked up, I saw the ghost of a camera lens or the sharp, judging eyes of a socialite who wanted to see the girl in the emerald dress stumble.

I couldn't breathe. My ribs felt like they were being crushed by the weight of the silk and the hidden corset Kai’s stylists had insisted upon.

"Kai," I gasped, the name barely more than a bruised whisper. I clutched his arm, my nails digging into the fine wool of his tuxedo. "I...I can't. The air. I need to get out."

Kai didn't hesitate, he didn't even look around to see who was watching. He didn't check for Richard or Evelyn. He simply turned, his body shielding me from the room, and began to navigate us toward a set of heavy velvet curtains at the far end of the hall.

To the room, it looked like a passionate retreat. He had his arm around my waist, pulling me so close that our hips brushed with every step, his head ducked low as if he were whispering sweet, desperate nothings into my ear.

"Stay with me, Briselle," he murmured, his voice a low, commanding rasp. "Focus on the sound of my shoes on the floor. Just five more steps."

He pushed through the curtains and into a dimly lit corridor, then through a heavy oak door that led to a small, private conservatory. The air here was cooler, smelling of damp earth and jasmine, but the crushing weight on my chest didn't lift.

I stumbled toward a stone bench, my hands flying to my throat. "I can't...it’s too tight, Kai. I’m going to pass out."

"Turn around," he commanded.

I turned my back to him, my head bowing as I gasped for air. I heard the rustle of his jacket as he threw it onto a nearby chair. Then, I felt his hands.

His touch was cold against the overheated skin of my back. He didn't just unzip the dress, he moved with a practiced, lethal grace. As the hidden zipper slid down, the fabric gave way, but the corset beneath was laced with the complexity of a spiderweb.

"Hold onto the pillar," he said, his breath hot against the nape of my neck.

I gripped the cold marble of a nearby column as I felt him begin to work the laces. Even here, in the shadows of the greenery, he was performing. He leaned his body against mine, his chest pressing into my bare back. To anyone looking through the glass panes of the conservatory door, it would look like we were caught in a heated, scandalous embrace.

"We have to keep the act," he whispered, his fingers deftly untying the knots. "Even if there are no cameras, there are ears. The walls in this house have memory."

He leaned down, his lips brushing the indentation of my spine—not a kiss, but a lingering, tactile pressure that made my knees weak. I let out a choked sound as the tension in the corset finally snapped.

"Breathe," he commanded.

I took a deep, shuddering lungful of air. The relief was so intense it was painful. My ribs expanded, and for the first time in hours, my head cleared. But as the physical suffocating stopped, a different kind of breathless tension took its place.

Kai didn't pull away once the dress was loosened. He stayed there, his hands resting on my hips, holding the emerald silk in place so it wouldn't fall completely. He was a wall of heat behind me, a solid, dangerous presence in a world made of glass.

"Better?" he asked.

"Yes," I breathed, my forehead leaning against the marble. "Thank you."

He turned me around slowly. The dress was slipping, the bodice held up only by the way he was hovering over me. He looked down at me, his gray eyes dark and unreadable in the moonlight filtering through the glass ceiling.

"You look exhausted," he said. His voice was no longer the sharp, arrogant tool he used on his father. It was softer, edged with something that sounded terrifyingly like genuine concern.

"I'm tired of the lying, Kai," I said, looking up at him. "I'm tired of the eyes. I'm tired of pretending that I don't want to scream every time your father looks at me."

Kai reached out, his thumb tracing the line of my lower lip. It was a lover’s gesture, a slow, intoxicating movement that made my heart hammer harder than the panic ever had. But he didn't lean in to close the gap. Instead, he just stared at my mouth with a look of starvation he was trying to hide.

"Then don't pretend," he whispered.

He leaned in, his forehead coming to rest against mine. I could see the tiny fracture in his iris, the way his pulse was jumping in his throat. He looked at me as if I were the only real thing in a house full of illusions.

"We’re in our own world now, Briselle," he murmured. "Just for a few minutes. Forget the fundraiser, forget the trust fund, forget the blackmail."

"How can I?" I asked, my voice trembling. "You're still Kai Thornefield. And I'm still just the girl you're using."

"Are you?" he asked, his hand sliding up to cup my jaw, his fingers tangling in the silk ribbons of my hair.

He stayed there, inches away. The magnetic pull was so strong I leaned forward, almost seeking him out, but he held his ground. He was a man of infinite control, and right now, that control was being tested by a girl who wasn't even supposed to matter.

I reached up, my fingers trembling as I touched the lapel of his tuxedo. "Kai...someone might see."

"Let them. That’s the point" he growled. He pulled me closer, his arm hooking around my waist to anchor me to him, keeping the loose dress from falling. "Maybe if they believe it enough, I can start to believe it too."

He buried his face in the crook of my neck, inhaling the scent of my skin. I felt a shiver race through me, a primal, electric response that defied logic. We were trapped in a lie, but this—the heat of him, the way he was holding me as if I were something precious, it felt like the only truth I had left.

"You're shaking again," he noted, his voice muffled against my skin.

"I'm cold," I lied.

"No, you aren't," he said, pulling back to look me in the eye. A slow, dark smirk spread across his face, the first real smile I’d seen on him all night. "You're terrified because you realized you aren't acting anymore."

"I am," I insisted, though my voice lacked conviction. "I’m the best actress in the world."

"Then prove it," he whispered.

The way he looked at me—with a mix of hunger and absolute, terrifying focus, was more intimate than anything I’d ever experienced. He brought his lips to my forehead, a slow, possessive press of skin against skin that felt like a silent vow.

In that moment, the fundraiser didn't exist. Richard didn't exist. There was only the sound of the wind rattling the glass of the conservatory and the frantic beat of two hearts that were learning a new, dangerous rhythm.