Political Love

Soft life fantasy

Lucas POV:

I'm screwed. That's definite. Ever since her birthday, my mind has been spinning, my ideas shifting. Every small action, every detail—it's all stuck with me. From the coffee shop, where I first noticed the subtle tells in her body language, to now, where I've made a promise she's abusing in her own way—and I'm letting it happen. Too easily. I keep telling myself—just for tonight. Only for tonight. This is revenge. This is me trying to wrap her around my finger bit by bit, just so she'll never look at Daniel again.

It doesn't matter if she loves someone else, wants to be friends with other men, or goes out dancing. She's not my wife in the way that matters—I don't have emotions beyond revenge and control. But that doesn't stop it from hurting, deep down, every time I see the way her face lights up when Daniel walks through our backyard gate. I'm trying to get on his level. I want her to trust me—not to fall for me. I don't need her love. I just need her attention.

Daniel knows about Silvia. I mentioned Silvia once to Alison, and the guilt that flashed across her face told me everything. She said she's not the kind of woman to steal another woman's man. But it's not just that. I didn't properly break things off with Silvia. We're done, I haven't been to Russia since the wedding, but somehow, Daniel Harrison knows. I don't want it to come out, but if it does, I need Alison to at least like me enough to forgive.

I slept with Silvia once—right after Alison and I were forced into this engagement. Alison probably wouldn't care; we were strangers forced together. But I'd care if she told me she'd done something with Daniel. It's out of guilt. It's out of revenge. I'm not falling for her, for her small dimples, or the way she cooks. I'm not falling for the way she acts like a child sometimes, teasing me.

The sexual tension is there, and I quite enjoy it. It's like a cat-and-mouse game, almost reminds me of my days at Harvard with the smart girls trying to ease their way into my bed. But this is different—she doesn't egg it on, and I've learned how to back off. I respect her for that. I respect her more each second. But I'm not falling for Alison Miller. I can't.

"You done?" I call out to Alison, leaning against the wall by the bathroom. We're back at the hotel, and she's still getting ready. I'm already dressed in my suit—black, with a dark red tie. The double-breasted jacket is tailored perfectly, the theme tonight being some masquerade party. It's Vegas; I've stopped asking questions. My shoes are polished black leather, and the Armani watch on my wrist ticks away as I wait. I adjust the custom-made family heirloom cufflinks—silver with a cursive 'P' for Petrov, representing my family's Russian lineage.

"No! I don't know what to wear! You packed my clothes, and you packed a lot," she calls out from inside the bathroom. I did pack for her, grabbing almost everything that still had tags on it, just in case. We're in Vegas, and I knew there would be cameras, news outlets, and paparazzi ready to pounce.

"What are you wearing?" she asks, and I glance at my watch again, impatience seeping in.

"Prada," I reply, my voice clipped. How long is she going to take? The kiss from earlier is still on my mind, playing on a loop. The way that dress hugged her, it was like it was made just for her. I never imagined myself getting caught up in the details of a dress, but here I am, thinking about it. We're in a rush, though, and I have no time to dwell on how perfect she looked. I'm not one to throw out compliments lightly; when I do, it's because I'm completely gone, and I'm not there yet.

"Yeah!" she whines. "But what color? Like, what color are you in?"

I raise an eyebrow at her question. Can't she just pick a dress? "Uh, why? You want to match with me?" I ask, my tone laced with sarcasm, though I'm genuinely curious. The bathroom door swings open, and there she is, standing barefoot in just a corset. The wedding dress is off, and I can see everything—her long, toned legs, the delicate curves of her body. She's short compared to me, but right now, that's not what's on my mind. My mouth parts slightly, but I quickly collect myself.

"The hell are you naked for?" I snap, more out of surprise than anything else. She just shuts the door again, disappearing back into the bathroom. I let out a sigh and lean against the wall, fiddling with my cufflinks. That glimpse of her has my thoughts running wild. The way the corset framed her... I catch myself thinking about undoing it, imagining how it would feel to let my hands roam over her skin. "The hell was that for?" I mutter under my breath. It's not like I haven't seen a woman semi-naked before, but this... it's different. It's as if she's a secret temptress, playing some game she doesn't even know she's started. Has she ever been around a real man before? If she's doing this with me, a stranger, what the hell does she do with Daniel?

A few moments later, Alison steps out in a dark red dress, and I can't help but stare. The dress is stunning, a perfect blend of elegance and allure. It hugs her curves in all the right places, and the daring backless design adds a bold touch. The slit along her right thigh shows off her leg, making her look like she's ready to turn heads. As she sprays her curls with a bottle from the hotel, I find myself at a loss for words.

"It's stunning," I mumble, my eyes following her every move. She turns to me, smiling proudly at the compliment. It's not just the dress; it's the way she carries herself, the confidence that radiates from her. And damn it, I'm finding it harder and harder to keep my distance. I forgot about my annoyance or the time. I wont even ask if she does this with Daniel.

"I wanted to try to match with your tie," she admits shyly, her lips curling into a proud, happy smile. Even her makeup is something I hadn't noticed before—black eyeshadow mixed with glittery red, shining under the light. I take a step closer, intrigued by the way the colors catch my eye. "Match? I think our reds are off," I mumble, feeling the sudden weight of my wedding ring as I rub it absentmindedly. The gold metal never bothered me before, but now it feels heavy, almost suffocating. It's not the ring, though. It's her—trying to match with me, trying to make us look like we belong together.

She glances down at her dress, pouting a bit when she notices the difference in shades. Her dress is a deep, almost black red that shimmers under the light. "I could go downstairs to the shops in the hotel and... buy a darker tie," I blurt out, surprising myself as her eyes light up and she smiles even more, her dimples deepening. Why did I say that?

"Really? Oh, it's so cute! Ya know, I'm enjoying this whole pretend thing... like we really are married and you're being free. It's so nice," she says, walking back into the bathroom. I find myself following her, unable to stay away. She turns to face the mirror, putting down the spray bottle and scrunching up her curls. Her eyes are softer now, and she looks so different, almost like the woman I saw at the coffee shop. Is this who she is when she's away from her father, when she's free to be herself? There's something almost childlike in her, a purity I didn't expect. Maybe I was wrong—maybe she doesn't irk me. Maybe nothing is off about her. She just needs to be herself.

"You're so pretty," I whisper from behind her, cursing myself as the words slip out. That's the second compliment tonight. I'm only supposed to be a one-compliment guy. "I'll be back. I'm going to go get the tie, okay? We'll match, just for tonight."

She joins in with a light laugh, cutting me off. "For tonight, just for tonight, only for tonight—yeah, yeah, I got it!" She giggles and waves her hand dismissively.

"Yeah, tonight. I know," I say, more to myself than to her. I need to stop reminding her, but I can't help it. It's like I'm trying to convince myself, to justify all the things I'm doing and feeling.