Million Dollar Devil

32.

Just one dance.

The words repeat in my head and I shudder, not because I'm flustered, but because I'm furious. Furious at him, at myself, at whatever this is that keeps dragging me back into his orbit.

His fingers release and my hair falls down my back, cold air replacing heat. I pull a breath through my teeth and turn my gaze on the skyline.

"Just go back inside, please," I say firmly.

"I will." His voice is steady, impersonal. "After this."

"There is no this."

He doesn't argue. "One dance."

"You're not listening." I say as I turn to face him, jaw tight.

The night air presses cool against my skin, but heat still lingers where his hand had been. The patio is empty, a quiet pocket carved out from the noise of the ballroom inside. The city lights stretching out in reflections across the windows. His silhouette stands perfectly still against them, posture straight, unyielding, like he's carved out of stone.

"I am listening, Lillian," he says calmly. "You've been avoiding me."

My chest tightens. "That's not true—"

"Is it?" he continues, unfazed, "Because you practically change direction when you see me."

"It's called having a job. I just have things to do," I lie through my teeth.

"Your job," he says, voice low, "is being next to me."

"Considering you're my personal assistant," he adds quietly.

I only scoff in return.

"I'm not doing this," I say. "Not tonight."

His gaze doesn't waver, sharp under the low light. "And I'm offering you a way to end this conversation right now. One dance."

I exhale, sharp and tired.

"You don't stop, do you?" I almost laugh. It's not humor, not disbelief, just the bitter understanding that he'll stand here all night if I make him.

Finally, he speaks. His voice low, measured. "You want me to leave?"

"Yes."

"Then do as I've asked," something in his gaze shifts, suddenly piercing me like a burning hot dagger.

I stare at him, waiting for something human to surface in his expression, maybe a hint of smugness, irritation, anything. But there's nothing, just plain cold calculation, and I hate him for it.

The worst part is, I know him well enough by now to understand what that means, he'll stay here as long as it takes. He'll just wait me out until I'm the one who breaks.

The silence sits thick between us, nothing but the quiet sound of our breathing, the hum of the piano and the faint smell of distant rain in the air. The city lights flicker across the glass behind him, cutting his smug face into shadow and gold.

I drag a breath through my nose, the chill air biting at the back of my throat. Maybe this is the only way to end it. To do what he's asking and be done with it. One dance. Goddamn it. One minute of civility, and then I can walk away.

So I lift my chin, forcing steadiness into my voice. "Fine," I say. "One dance."

His expression doesn't shift. No triumph. No reaction at all, just a single, almost imperceptible nod. He turns around and leads me back toward ballroom.  The warmth of the room hits me, and it's then that I notice I had been shivering.