The ballroom they'd converted for the evening's challenge was nothing like the hunting grounds of the estate. It was all gleaming wood and cold mirrors; a long, echoing chamber that caught the flicker of candle-light and multiplied it until it shimmered like a thousand tiny suns. The air smelled faintly of polish, perfume and something warm from the kitchens drifting under the door. Tonight's challenge was the "mirror dance." It was supposed to be light entertainment for the guests, a test of coordination for the younger generation. For Damien, it had become something else entirely.
He was already waiting at the far end when she stepped in. Everyone else saw Isla -- graceful, immaculate, a woman who looked like she'd been raised to glide across ballrooms. Only he knew the truth, and even he had started forgetting to correct himself. Maya had been living inside Isla for so long now that she moved like her, breathed like her. He'd stopped reminding her to "stay in character" weeks ago; he'd stopped needing to. She hadn't slipped once, even under the constant hum of Helena Cross's attention. His mother had not found a single flaw in Isla's background, but that had only deepened her suspicion. Too perfect, Damien could read it on her face. Too seamless to be real.
He flexed his hands, watching Maya walk toward him. Her dress was a soft champagne colour that caught the light and turned it molten against her skin. Her hair was pinned but a single strand had escaped, brushing her throat when she moved. Something in his chest tightened as she crossed the floor.
"You ready?" she asked quietly, tilting her head at him.
"Always," he said, voice low.
The first notes rolled out, slow and deliberate. She raised her hands. He mirrored her, palms angled to hers without touching. A glide, a half-turn, the brush of fabric. Their reflections sprang up around them -- dozens of Damiens and Islas dancing in perfect synchronicity. But his eyes stayed on the one body in front of him, the real her.
Step. Pivot. Her lashes lowered as she spun. When she laughed under her breath at a stumble, the sound cracked through his ribs like sunlight. He'd admired her discipline at first, the way she never broke. What caught him now were these slips—small bursts of the girl under the mask, the girl who had kissed him once and left him sleepless for weeks.
They moved closer with each phrase until there was no space left but a breath of air. He could smell her perfume, faint and dark, feel the heat rising off her body. She raised her palm; he raised his. Their fingers hovered over the cold glass between them. She looked up at him through her lashes, and for a heartbeat her gaze flicked down to his mouth before returning to his eyes. The jolt that went through him was immediate, dragging up the memory of the semester-end party -- the taste of her mouth, the confusion after, the sharp need that had lingered ever since.
He guided her into a slow arc. She didn't need cues anymore. She'd never once blown their cover. He had built Isla's world, given her every piece of it, and she had stepped into it with a precision that had startled him. But standing this close, her breath hitching when his hand skimmed her waist to steady her, he felt more than pride. Protectiveness. Desire. Something heavier and sharper that curled low in his stomach.
Around the edge of the hall, Helena stood like a pale sentinel. She said nothing, but Damien knew that look. She was watching, waiting. Suspicion simmered under her calm expression. He forced himself not to glance at her again, to keep his focus locked on Maya.
She spun under his arm, hair sliding across her cheek. He wanted to reach out and tuck it behind her ear, to press his mouth to hers again, but instead he moved with her, breath syncing to hers. The music shifted, slowed, swelled. Her palm met his on the mirror at last, skin against skin through the chill surface. Her eyes were bright, her mouth soft, and she was so close he could feel her exhale on his jaw.
He stared at her lips again, then back into her eyes. In that poised stillness another flicker of the real Maya broke through -- quick, vulnerable, and it made his chest ache. He remembered the kiss. He remembered how it had left him gutted and restless. He remembered telling himself he would not think about it again. And here he was, thinking of nothing else.
The dance demanded more than precision now. It demanded closeness. He stepped in, their knees brushing, his hand sliding to the small of her back as the steps required. She drew in a breath that sounded almost like a sigh. His thumb moved in a small circle against the fabric of her dress before he caught himself. She didn't pull away.
Around them applause began to rise, but the music hadn't finished yet. They were supposed to bow at the end, but they held their pose a heartbeat longer, palms pressed to the glass, their eyes locked. She stepped back first, sliding her hand away, her face smoothing back into Isla's composure.
"We should go," she murmured, voice steady but lower than before.
He forced a steady breath. "Right." His voice was calm; his pulse wasn't. He didn't need to remind her who she was pretending to be. She knew. She had been perfect. It was himself he didn't trust now -- this hunger to close the space between them, to pull her in, to keep her.
They walked off the mirrored floor together, through the murmuring crowd. He glanced once, despite himself, at Helena. Her eyes were still narrowed, her mouth set in that small, knowing curve. She would wait. She would watch. For now, the secret still held.
Maya's shoulder brushed his as they left the hall. Heat shot up his arm and settled under his skin. The next game waited somewhere ahead, but all he could think of was the moment in the mirrors -- her laugh, her eyes, the taste of memory, and how dangerously easy it was becoming to forget that none of this was supposed to be real.
They passed into a side corridor where the noise dulled. Damien found himself reaching out before he could stop, fingertips brushing the back of her hand as if to anchor her. She glanced at him, a question in her eyes. He let his hand fall.
"Good work," he managed. "You didn't miss a beat."
She gave a small smile, the kind that wasn't Isla's at all. "Neither did you."
That smile stayed with him as they walked on, deeper into the house, his mother's suspicion trailing them like a shadow and the echo of the dance still burning under his skin.