Sherry raised an eyebrow.
Andrew's lips curved slightly as he leaned in, seemingly awaiting her answer.
Sherry glanced at the visibly flustered woman clinging to Andrew's arm. Time for a reminder. "Hey. Seems you already have an escort."
"Oh?" Andrew lifted his brows, feigning surprise as if just noticing. He turned his head, gave the woman a dismissive look, and chuckled, his tone casual and mocking. "Ah. Do I?"
The woman paled, hastily releasing his arm. "No, sir..."
Andrew turned back, a charming smile returning as he fixed Sherry with that intense, earnest invitation.
Sherry's lips curved. Instead of answering, she reached out and plucked the decorative rose from Andrew's shirt pocket.
She stepped past him, tucking the rose behind the woman's ear, then lifted her hand and kissed it softly.
"My apologies, darling."
"Oh, no! It was an honor to accompany Mr. Andrew," the woman stammered, blushing furiously under Sherry's gaze, looking away shyly.
Well, who could resist Sherry?
"Nonsense," Sherry laughed, exchanging air kisses. "The honor was his."
As the flushed woman retreated, Sherry turned back to Andrew, arms crossed, a sardonic smile playing on her lips. She met his unwavering gaze.
Andrew raised an eyebrow, unruffled.
"Seems I have no reason to refuse, playboy," Sherry purred.
"The honor is mine," Andrew grinned.
Under the watchful eyes of the crowd, Sherry slipped her arm through his.
Sherry was statuesque, radiant. Most men paled beside her. Andrew, however, towered over her by a head, his raw, predatory charisma matching, even surpassing, hers.
Arm around her slender waist, he leaned close, murmuring in her ear, "Healed from that last hit?"
"Of course," Sherry replied, flexing her shoulder with a smile.
While Andrew charmed Sherry, others approached Rex.
Men and women, drawn by his unexpected escort. Some were undoubtedly from Louis's faction.
Much of the talk wasn't for Dixie's ears, and trust was scarce. Rex gave a curt nod, indicating a change of venue.
Dixie was left behind.
No seats in the ballroom. A lone figure in white, one arm bound, stood by the champagne fountain, head bowed, staring at her kid-leather shoe tips.
The heels weren't kind to her healing leg. Dixie shifted her weight to the good leg, easing the dull ache beneath the bandages. The cast was off, but strenuous movement was still impossible.
Will I make it?
Might lose the leg.
Silent, head down, she studied the injured limb. Loose strands of hair fell across her forehead and cheeks.
Suddenly, cold champagne cascaded over her head.
Gasps erupted nearby, drawing stares.
The shock of cold liquid jolted Dixie. Adrenaline spiked. She twisted sideways, instinctively snatching a butter knife from the nearby table. Her dark eyes, flat moments before, now blazed with alertness. Muscles coiled, ready to deflect the glass and strike.
Realizing it was only champagne, her raised hand froze. The tension slowly bled from her frame. Her grip on the small silver knife loosened slightly, but she didn't let go.
The cold sweat of panic receded. Thought it was acid. Or worse.
Standing beside her was a duke's daughter, her champagne flute still tilted. A final drop fell from the rim, landing on Dixie's wet, sticky black hair.
More sharp intakes of breath echoed.
"Filth doesn't belong at such gatherings."
Under the collective gaze, the woman stared directly into Dixie's dark eyes. Her voice was deliberate, unhurried. A slow, cruel smile touched her red lips as she finally righted her glass.
"Maggie, that's uncalled for," a matron murmured, frowning.
"She is uncalled for," Maggie sniffed. She stepped closer, exuding haughty disdain. Two fingers pinched Dixie's chin, forcing it up. "Isn't that right, stray?"
Champagne dripped from soaked hair. Dixie stared up, breath catching, dark eyes fixed on the beautiful, cruel face. She was still locked in the hyper-vigilance of a potential acid attack, struggling to process the words.
"…"
Unlike everyone at Burman, this woman held no lethal intent. No attack plan, no weapon. Just pure contempt, simple provocation, naked disgust.
Dixie didn't know what to do.
In her world, an attack meant death. No quarter given, no chance for counterattack.
This wasn't that.
Stabbing the butter knife into her throat seemed… inappropriate.
"What are you doing?"
A cold, low voice cut through the air behind Maggie. She lifted her eyes, the mask of arrogance shifting towards the speaker. "Me?"
"You."
Dixie looked past Maggie's shoulder. Rex's ice-blue eyes bore down from above.
Dixie stood drenched, champagne dripping from her hair, tracing the unhealed cuts on her face, clinging to her dark lashes. Her chin was forcibly lifted, dark eyes locked on him. The butter knife was still clutched in her hand.
"Let go."
Rex's face was thunderous. His eyes narrowed, the warning in his voice glacial.
"Hey, Rex. Just teaching her some manners," Maggie retorted, her arrogant smile unwavering. The hand pinching Dixie's chin didn't loosen.
Rex ignored her, his cold gaze fixed on Dixie.
Dixie understood the command. Hesitating, she pressed her lips together and carefully placed the silver knife back on the table. Her dark eyes returned to Rex.
Seeing the knife, a flicker of surprise crossed Maggie's eyes. Rex's focus on Dixie, however, only deepened Maggie's triumphant expression.
Rex raised a single brow.
He didn't know what had stopped Dixie, but he had no doubt she'd intended to smash the glass and drive that knife into Maggie's throat. He'd seen it before – during sparring, her lightning-fast hand strikes could disarm, followed instantly by a punch to the face.
Cost me a new phone.
"...Sorry," Dixie mumbled after a moment, her voice small, directed at Rex.
If not for the crowd, Rex might have laughed in sheer frustration.
"Go clean up. Disgusting."
Rex kept his expression icy, gesturing dismissively.
"That kind of filth doesn't wash off," Maggie sneered, finally releasing Dixie's chin.
Freed, Dixie instantly averted her gaze and limped hurriedly towards the restrooms.
Kid-leather heels were clearly not made for limping. Rex watched her awkward gait, a silent click of his tongue.
"So, Rex," Maggie sidled up, offering him a plate of petits fours, her smile still victorious, "why no invite for me this time? We had such… chemistry last time."
Rex's ice-blue gaze slid from the sweets to the small silver knife Dixie had held. He picked it up.
Maggie preened, pushing the plate closer.
CRACK.
The knife plunged down, cleaving the delicate pastry. The plate beneath splintered instantly in Maggie's hands. The knife's tip protruded through the broken china, stopping a hair's breadth from her manicured fingers.
"!!!"
Maggie's face drained of color. Her hand jerked. The shattered plate halves hit the thick carpet with a dull thud, sending pastries scattering.
Rex didn't spare the terrified woman a glance. He looked down at his hand, flexing his fingers as if mildly dissatisfied with the force, clicked his tongue, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked away.
Emerging from the restroom, Dixie expected Rex to be gone. Instead, he stood not far off, near the champagne fountain, holding a fresh glass.
Dixie, hair still damp, limped towards him.
Rex sensed her approach. His ice-blue eyes lifted.
Meeting that cold stare, Dixie froze mid-step. Her lips pressed into a tight line. Her dark eyes lifted warily, like a cornered pup sensing a predator. Hunters knew the look – the moment before the panicked squeal and desperate flight.
Rex pressed his tongue against a molar. He gestured sharply for her to come.
Dixie hesitated, then limped over to stand beside him.
Rex, one hand in his pocket, the other holding champagne, narrowed his eyes at her dripping hair.
"…"
Dixie stood silent before him, gaze skittering away guiltily.
"Look up."
Dixie resisted, a silent protest in her stillness.
Rex drew a slow breath, forcing calm. He had to lower the guard. "Look up. At me."
A beat of silence. Dixie reluctantly lifted her chin. Wet lashes swept up. Spine rigid, breath held, she met his gaze.
"Where were you aiming that knife?"
"...Nowhere."
"Where?"
"...Throat."
Her voice was small but clear. Answer given, her dark eyes slid away again.
"…"
Rex took another deep, steadying breath. A complex shadow flickered in his icy eyes.
"Look at me."
Rex reached out, fingers closing firmly on her chin, forcing it up. The grip was strong, bordering on painful, making her jawbone ache.
"Tell me. Why didn't you do it?"
Dixie paused, seeming to truly consider the question for the first time. Her dark lashes blinked once.
She lowered her gaze, silent, deep in thought. Rex waited.
After a long moment, she spoke slowly, "...Not... appropriate."
"Not appropriate?"
Rex's brow furrowed slightly. His grip unconsciously tightened.
Why not? Because it wasn't a real attack?
The corner of Dixie's mouth trembled faintly from the pain, but her face remained impassive. Not a flinch, not a frown. Only the subtle tremor betrayed the discomfort.
"…"
Her dark eyes reflected Rex's own intense, unblinking stare – clear, direct, utterly feral.
Rex released her.
Distinct purple-green finger marks blossomed on the pale skin near her jawbone.
Rex licked his teeth, his gaze thoughtful as he watched Dixie raise a hand to rub her sore chin.