Page 34 of Veil of Obsession

I don’t fucking like being watched. But I don’t look away either.

“Here. I’ll be back.” I hand Dana my glass.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“I’m going to smoke.”

She pouts, shifting closer as if she thinks I’ll change my mind, but I’m already turning away.

“I’ll be back,” I mutter, dismissing whatever flirtatious protest she might have had lined up.

She sighs dramatically, but she doesn’t press.

I make my way through the crowd, cutting through bodies adorned in designer silks and tailored suits, barely paying attention to the conversations swirling around me. The gildedpretense of this world is suffocating, and the longer I stand in it, the more I crave the crisp bite of the night air.

Stepping onto the balcony, I exhale slowly. The cold sinks into my skin, cutting through the lingering warmth of the ballroom. It’s quieter out here—isolated.

I light a cigarette, the click of my lighter breaking the silence, the ember flaring as I take a slow drag. The smoke curls lazily around me as I lean against the stone railing, letting my thoughts settle into the quiet.

Bored. Fucking bored.

These events are always the same. Same faces, same conversations, same shallow games of power disguised as pleasantries. I take another pull exhaling through my nose.

Then—movement.

I shift, my gaze sliding to the newcomer. The woman from the dance floor. Up close, she’s even more striking. The delicate bone structure, the high cheekbones softened by subtle roundness, the lush curve of her mouth—features that hint at a lineage woven from more than one world. There’s something undeniably intoxicating about her. Something that makes me want to stare at her for eternity.

There’s a quiet, striking symmetry to her features. Something in the way sharp lines meet soft curves, a balance that feels both familiar and hard to place.

I wait for her to disappear back into the ballroom, but she doesn’t move. She’s still here. She should have walked away by now and turned back into the ballroom. Instead, she stands in front of me, the soft glow of the chandeliers catching in her dark eyes, turning them into something molten. Something dangerous.

She doesn’t belong here. Not in the way these other women do. She watches. Studies. Calculates.

And tonight, she’s watching me.

I take a slow drag from my cigarette, my pulse steady, measured. My fingers itch to touch her—to test her, to see if she’s as controlled as she pretends to be.

But I don’t. Not yet. Instead, I exhale a thin stream of smoke, letting the silence stretch.

“You smoke?” I ask, my voice rough, edged with something I don’t bother naming.

She pauses, her head tilting just slightly, caught off-guard but hiding it well. “Not usually.”

She’s lying.

I hold out my cigarette, pinching the filter between two fingers, offering it to her. My gaze never leaves hers. “Want one?”

She hesitates. Not because she doesn’t want it. Because she doesn’t know what this means.

Smart girl.

But she takes it anyway. She steps forward, closing the distance between us just enough that I catch the faintest scent of her—something light and floral, something that doesn’t belong here in the cold.

The warmth of her fingertips brushes against mine as she takes the cigarette. A brief touch, fleeting. But I feel it like a brand. She lifts it to her lips, inhaling carefully, like she’s bracing herself. The second the smoke hits her lungs, her body betrays her. She coughs, her throat catching, breath stuttering. Her eyes close, her lashes flutter, and for the first time since I noticed her, her mask slips.

I smirk. “You’ve never smoked before, have you?”

She glares at me, her expression sharp even as her voice comes out raw. “Never.”