The ballroom glimmered under a cascade of golden chandeliers, casting a warm, elegant light over the polished marble floor. Strings and piano hummed through the grand hall, drawing couples to the center like gravity itself. As the music swelled into the first notes of a slow, sweeping waltz, Xander Volkov turned to Erin Lane with a hand extended, his dark eyes locked onto hers.
"Miss Lane," he said, voice smooth but guarded, "shall we?"
Erin didn't answer immediately. Instead, she stared at his hand, as if debating whether touching it might curse her. Then, with a measured breath, she placed her gloved fingers into his palm. The contact was brief—impersonal. But as his other hand settled lightly on the small of her back, and hers rested on his shoulder, the distance between them shrank to less than a whisper.
They began to move in sync—fluid, poised, almost like they had done this a thousand times before. Xander's steps were confident, his posture perfect. Erin matched him step for step, her grace belying her supposed position as a maid.
"You dance well," he said after a pause, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
"Don't sound so surprised," she replied, chin tilted slightly.
"I am. Not many maids have formal waltz training."
She smiled, but it was laced with sarcasm. "Maybe I watched a YouTube tutorial on my break."
Xander's brow lifted slightly, amused despite himself. "Right. And next you'll tell me you taught yourself five languages over coffee breaks too?"
"Only four," she quipped.
The music carried them across the room like shadows drawn to moonlight. Around them, eyes turned to admire the couple—how effortlessly they moved, how flawlessly their bodies aligned, as if no space existed between them. But the tension under the surface was palpable, sharp, like a string drawn too tight.
"Tell me something," he said, his tone suddenly serious. "You hate me."
"I do," she replied, without hesitation.
"Then why work for me?"
Erin's gaze didn't waver. "I didn't have a choice."
"Everyone has a choice. If you hate me that much, you could have left."
"If it were that simple, I wouldn't be here in the first place."
"Is it about the money?" His voice dipped just a little.
She laughed under her breath—humorless, quiet. "If I needed money, I'd be somewhere else. Somewhere far away from you."
That silenced him for a moment. The room spun gently around them, but inside the bubble of their dance, it felt like only the two of them existed.
"Then why stay?" he asked.
"I already told you," she said, her voice nearly a whisper. "I don't have a choice."
His eyes bore into hers, searching, calculating, trying to peel away the cool exterior she so expertly wore. "Who are you, really?"
There it was. The question that cracked something in her chest. For a second, she faltered—but her feet didn't. She continued dancing as if the world hadn't shifted under her skin.
Erin leaned in slightly, her breath grazing the edge of his jaw. "Wouldn't you like to know."
Xander chuckled, but it was laced with something darker—frustration, intrigue, maybe even a flicker of admiration. "You're infuriating."
"I try."
To anyone watching, they were the image of a flawless couple. The angle of their hands, the curve of her waist beneath his hand, the rise and fall of their synchronized steps—it was poetry. Soft, captivating, and romantic in the most cinematic way.
"You know," he said after a beat, "you don't act like someone who's here to change bed sheets."
"And you don't act like someone who's never heard the word 'no,'" she replied, her tone gentle but edged.
The song neared its end, the final swell of violins building like waves crashing against a cliff. As the music hit its peak, Xander spun her outward, then drew her back in—close, breathless. For a moment, her face was inches from his.
"What if I told you I could find out who you really are?" he murmured.
"Then I'd say good luck."
Their eyes locked—his gaze fierce, hers unreadable—and then the music ended, and with it, the illusion of peace. Applause echoed through the hall, but neither of them clapped. They simply stood, still wrapped in each other's arms, as if letting go would shatter the delicate balance between them.
Then, slowly, Xander released her hand. She gave a small, courteous nod—the kind expected of a well-trained companion at formal events—and stepped back.
"You hide well, Erin Lane," he said, his voice low.
She met his gaze, her lips curved in a smirk. "And you suspect well, Mr. Volkov."
Then she turned and walked away—shoulders straight, head high, leaving him in the center of the dance floor.
But he didn't move. Not for a long time.
Because for the first time in a very long while, Xander Volkov felt something he couldn't explain.
And he hated not knowing.