The man blinked, startled, then turned and recognized me. All color drained from his face. "Lady Cruelton. I—I was just—the Captain and I were discussing—"
"Leaving," I finished for him, smile razor-sharp. "Yes, I can see that. Don't let me keep you."
He looked to Theodore as if for rescue, but Theodore merely inclined his head politely. "We can continue this discussion another time, Mr. Thornbury."
It was a dismissal wrapped in courtesy. Mr Thornbury fled like his coattails were on fire.
Theodore's gaze returned to me, patient and unreadable. He was watching me the way a chess master watches an opponent's opening move—curious, analytical, mildly amused.
Closer now, I noticed a thin scar running from the corner of his left eye down to the top of his lip. Not long, not dramatic—just enough to catch the light and twist his expression into something sharper, more dangerous. And, of course, because of course, that tiny imperfection made him look even hotter. Like he’d survived something brutal and still come out looking like a painting.
"Lady Cruelton," he said evenly. "What an... unexpected pleasure."
His voice was very deep, controlled. The kind of voice that gave orders and expected them obeyed.
I smiled wider. "Captain Ashford. Lovely weather we're having. Perfect for a garden party. Or public humiliation. Whichever comes first."
He cocked his head. "Is that a threat or a promise?"
"Why not both?"
Something flickered in his expression—amusement, maybe.
He gestured vaguely at my dress. "You're wearing black."
"I am. Observant of you. Did they teach you that in the military, or is it a natural talent?"
"Widows wear black," he continued, ignoring my jab.
"Do they?" I said innocently, taking a sip of champagne. "How tragic. I just thought it matched my soul."
A few nearby guests gasped audibly. I heard a scandalized whisper: "Did she just say—"
Theodore's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes. A spark. "Interesting choice," he said calmly. "Most women here are trying to catch my attention. You seem intent on... what, exactly? Repelling it?"
"Oh, I'm not trying to do anything, Captain. I'm succeeding."
"Are you?"
The question hung in the air between us, unsettlingly sincere. Not mocking. Not rhetorical. Genuinely curious.
I faltered for half a second—his directness was disarming—then recovered. I had a role to play, and I was damn well going to play it.
I stepped closer, lowering my voice just enough that only he could hear. "Tell me, Captain. Do your military medals excuse boring conversation? Or do you just stand around looking decorative and hope no one notices you have nothing interesting to say?"
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Finally. A reaction.
But he didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he leaned in slightly, matching my proximity, and said quietly, "You'll have to try harder than that, Lady Cruelton."
What?
Frustration sparked hot in my chest. This wasn't going according to plan. He was supposed to react—argue, get angry, defend himself, something. Not... whatever this was. This calm, controlled interest.
Around us, the whispers intensified.
"—standing so close—"
"—scandalous—"
"—what is she saying to him?"
Good. Let them watch. Let them talk. Witnesses were essential.
I glanced at the champagne fountain beside us, at the golden liquid cascading down crystal tiers, at the crowd of elegant vultures circling at a respectful distance.
Fine. Time to escalate.
I took a step forward—too close, far too close for propriety, invading the space between us until I could see the gold flecks in his green eyes—and "accidentally" bumped into him.
Champagne sloshed dangerously in my glass, splashing onto my glove.
"Careful," Theodore said immediately, his hand instinctively reaching out to steady my elbow.
The touch was brief, impersonal, the reflex of someone trained to catch falling things.
I jerked away as if burned, as if his hand were a branding iron.
"Don't touch me," I said loudly, making sure everyone within twenty feet could hear. My voice pitched high, affronted, scandalized. "What do you think you're doing, accosting me in public?"
Gasps erupted around us like artillery fire.
Theodore's hand dropped immediately. "I was preventing you from falling."
"Falling?" I laughed, high and sharp, a sound like breaking glass. "The only thing falling here is your reputation, Captain. Grabbing unmarried ladies in public. How very ungentlemanly."
A woman behind me whispered urgently to her companion, "Did he really—"
"I saw it—"
"—so forward—"
Theodore didn't flinch. Didn't defend himself. Just stood there, composed as a statue, watching me with those too-perceptive eyes.
And that, more than anything, made my blood boil.
I needed a reaction. I needed him angry, flustered, humiliated—something I could use, something that would cement my victory and send my hatred points through the roof.
I raised the champagne flute, liquid gold catching the afternoon sun.
"You absolute walnut," I said clearly, projecting my voice across the garden. "Did your mother raise you in a barn, or did the military just beat all the manners out of you?"
For a split second, the garden held its breath.
Then I threw it.
The champagne arced beautifully through the air, a golden parabola of destruction, before splashing directly into his face.
The garden went silent.
Utterly, completely silent.
Theodore stood there, champagne dripping from his thick lashes, down his aristocratic nose, soaking into the wool of his pristine uniform. Dark stains spread across the medals on his chest.
He didn't move. Didn't shout. Didn't even blink the liquid from his eyes.
He just... stared at me.
The silence stretched, thin and fragile as spun glass.
Then the System chimed, cheerful and triumphant in my mind:
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION:
CHALLENGE COMPLETE: Cause a Scene
+750 Hatred Points ( Crowd: Scandalized Delight)
Current Balance: £8,750
Victory surged through me, hot and fierce. I'd done it. Public humiliation of a war hero, witnessed by half of society, with enough scandal to fuel gossip for months.
Perfect.
But Theodore didn't explode.
He reached into his pocket with slow, deliberate care and pulled out a white handkerchief. He began wiping his face, each movement controlled and precise, like he was cleaning a weapon after battle.
"That," he said quietly, his voice terrifyingly calm, "was a 1928 Dom Pérignon. Given the current war rations, that bottle was, for all intents and purposes, irreplaceable."
I blinked. What?
This wasn't in the script. Where was the fury? The outrage? The explosive masculine pride?
The crowd seemed to lean in, waiting.
I recovered quickly, forcing my grin wider, brittle with false confidence. "Was it? Tasted like expensive regret to me."
Perfect exit line. Devastating final blow.
I turned on my heel, skirts swirling dramatically, ready to stride away victorious—
His hand shot out and closed around my wrist.
Not painful. Not aggressive. Just... certain. Inescapable. His thumb rested over my racing pulse, and I knew—knew—he could feel my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I froze.
Stared at his hand, then slowly up at him.
"Is there a problem, Captain?" I said, voice dripping false sweetness, trying desperately to maintain control. "Thirsty? I have another glass. Or perhaps you'd like to lick it off your medals?"
Someone gasped.
Theodore ignored them all. He leaned in, close enough that I could smell starched linen and something distinctly, dangerously him—wool and leather and the faint copper scent of someone who'd seen real violence.
His next words were barely a murmur, meant only for me:
"The performance was compelling," he said quietly, those green eyes boring into mine. "But the motivation is lacking. What are you really running from, Lady Cruelton?"
My breath caught in my throat.
The garden sounds—whispers, rustling fabric, the string quartet—all faded to a dull roar.
And in my mind, the System didn't chime.
It screamed.
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION:
CRITICAL WARNING— INTEREST DETECTED.
NARRATIVE ANOMALY.
MISSION PARAMETERS COMPROMISED.
RECALCULATING—
The words flashed red and urgent behind my eyes, panic given digital form.
My smile froze on my face, a rictus of false victory.
Around us, the crowd pressed closer, vultures sensing blood in the water.
Theodore's grip on my wrist remained steady, patient, as if he had all the time in the world.
As if he knew something I didn't.
Wait.
What?