Chapter 11

Rhys stands awkwardly by the door, his eyes flicking between Eiran and me. The tension in the room is palpable, thick enough to choke on. Eiran sits, sprawled in the armchair we had been sharing earlier, his legs spread wide, one arm resting on the armrest while the other supports his head, his fist pressed against his cheek. With a lazy wave of his hand, he gestures for Rhys to leave.

Rhys looks relieved, a weight lifting from his shoulders as he nods quickly, almost too quickly, and retreats toward the door. The tension in his posture eases the moment he steps into the hallway, leaving us alone once more. The door closes with a soft click, and the silence that follows is deafening. I'm left with nothing but the pounding of my heart in my ears and the awareness of Eiran's gaze still locked onto me.

God knows if I'll be able to control myself now that it's just the two of us. God knows how he's going to play with me again, and this time, it feels like I'm dangling on the edge of a precipice, teetering between sanity and the chaos he always brings. He's unpredictable, his thoughts a mystery even to someone like me who prides herself on reading people. In front of him, I feel like a commoner trying to decipher an ancient text—a world where literacy is a privilege reserved for the rich.

"You want to know what I know?" His voice cuts through the silence, low and taunting. "Tell me what you know first, and I'll consider it."

Of course. He must know something, but he's dangling it in front of me like a carrot on a string, knowing full well I can't risk giving away what little I have. Our lives could depend on this information, and yet, to him, it's just a twisted game.

"You're so desperate," he continues, his tone dripping with condescension, "that you even came to a place like this. Alora, my dear—"

"Do not call me that!" The sharpness in my voice surprises even me, but I can't let him have that power, can't let him twist my name into something tainted by his mockery.

"Call you what? Alora? Or do you prefer Daisy?" His smirk deepens, eyes glinting with amusement.

"Shut it."

"Feisty." The word rolls off his tongue with a mix of admiration and mockery, and I realise, too late, that I'm moving toward him, my body reacting before my mind can catch up.

I find myself standing over him, my hands braced on either side of the armchair. My hair spills over my shoulders, some strands brushing against his lap. The desire to strangle him, to wipe that infuriating smirk off his face, surges through me. How did I get here? How did I let this man—a man who is nothing to me—get under my skin like this? He doesn't need me. I need him. And that knowledge burns me red, an angry, violent red that makes me wish I had never met him, never felt these unbearable things I feel now.

He's engaged, damn it. Does he even care for the woman he's promised to? Does he play these same games with her, or is this something reserved just for me? No. I can't let my emotions get the best of me. This is about survival now—do or die. It's only been a year since Mother's death, and I have no idea when the clock will strike twelve for the rest of us. For Father, Brother, Sister.

"Tell me before I strangle you with these pearls." My voice is low, dangerous. I'm close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him, but I keep myself rigid, poised to strike.

"Do it," he taunts, his eyes darkening with something I can't place. "You would look just as beautiful without the pearls."

"Sick bastard."

"That's not very lady-like of you." He leans back further into the chair, his gaze travelling over me in a way that makes my skin prickle.

"I'm not here as a lady."

"Then show me what you're here as, and I'll tell you what you want to know." His voice is a challenge, a dare that sets my nerves alight.

For a moment, I'm paralysed by indecision. But then I remember that this is my game now. I'm Daisy here, not a Lady. I'm simply a woman, a woman desperate enough to do whatever it takes. But what does he want from me? We've already crossed lines that can't be uncrossed. What more does he expect? What more can I give?

I lean in closer, my lips nearly brushing his ear as I whisper, "Your fiancée… does she not love you? Is that what this is? Why me?"

"I've never met her before," he replies, his tone suddenly flat, devoid of its usual playfulness. "Nor do I want to. She's simply a placeholder until I find a woman for myself. To buy time. Nothing else." His eyes flicker with something I can't decipher. "Jealous?"

"Why would I be jealous of a woman chained to a man who doesn't love her?" I shoot back, but the words taste bitter.

"So you want to be loved by me?" He raises an eyebrow, his lips curving into that infuriating smirk again.

"Anyone but you. A woman, if I'm desperate."

"I'd pay to see that."

"You have too many perverted fetishes."

"I only have one, though."

"And what is that one?"

"Will you make it come true?"

"In your dreams."

"What if you are my dream?" His voice drops, the teasing edge gone, replaced by something far more serious.

His words hit me like a blow, the sincerity in them making my breath hitch. For a split second, I believe him, believe that maybe, just maybe, he's telling the truth. But then I remember who I'm dealing with. This is nothing but a game to him, and the prize is life—my life, my family's life. He'll do whatever it takes to win, and I can't afford to forget that.

But before I can respond, before I can think of something clever to deflect his words, my body betrays me. My hair sways closer to him, and before I know what I'm doing, my lips are on his. It's a brief kiss, a brush of lips that sends a shock wave through my entire being. His lips are soft, softer than I expected, and when I pull back, I'm left breathless, my eyes searching his.

He's staring at me, his gaze intense, focused solely on my lips. It's strange, the way the world seems to tilt in these moments between us. One minute we're fighting, hating each other, and the next, we're… this. The woman he's supposed to love isn't me, and the man I hope to love isn't him. But none of that matters because, deep down, I want him. I want him so badly I can't think straight. And, God help me, he wants me too.

My brain screams at me to stop, to get up and leave before I lose myself completely. It's midnight, I should be gone by now. But I can't. I'm still Daisy, from sunset to sunrise. And he's a man who's come to be served. So I'll serve him.