Location: The Ashford's Country Club Garden Party
That was him.
Captain Theodore Ashford. Poster boy for heroic shoulders and a tragically perfect jawline.
The sun practically begged to highlight him, glinting off his uniform buttons like tiny, approving stars. He held a champagne flute like it was a tactical map he was bored of, the center of gravity in a room of people trying too hard.
Time for the show to begin.
I squared my shoulders. Alright, Beatrice. Deep breath. Commit to the bit. I spotted a waiter floating by with a tray of overpriced bubbles. Perfect. I snagged two flutes. One for throwing, one for… backup throwing? Moral support? I didn't overthink it.
I marched. A woman on a mission through a pastel garden of gossiping hydrangeas. I locked onto my target.
Conversations stuttered and died in my wake.
"—and then he said the stock would—oh, dear."
"Is she…is she walking toward the Captain?"
"Move,Clara, for heaven's sake."
They parted. They always did. A whisper slithered past my ear, "Lord knows what she's up to now." Another, closer, hissed, "Probably about to torment another poor soul." And a final, familiar verdict, tinged with fear: "She's crazy. Don't make eye contact."
I ignored them. Their version of madness was bad manners. Mine was a calculated survival strategy. With a side of flair.
Theodore Ashford's face was a masterpiece of polite endurance. His eyes were glazed, mentally reciting artillery specs, probably.
"—a truly excellent arrangement, Captain," the man beside him wheezed, fumbling for a business card. "My factories, your influence, if you'd just consider—"
I stopped. Directly in front of them. A wall of lavender taffeta and hostile intent.
Theo's eyes—distant a second before—snapped up and locked onto mine.
And I, traitorously, froze.
They weren't just green. They were the dark, merciless green of a deep forest— Like a forest that knew all your secrets.
Damn it. He was too aware. The element of surprise was gone.
But the curtain was up. The audience was waiting.
"Lady Cruelton," the businessman squeaked, recognizing me, his face draining of color. He took a half-step back.
Theo's gaze narrowed, just a fraction. Confusion, then dawning assessment.
I raised the champagne flute. The garden held its breath. You could hear a bee question its life choices.
I threw it.
It was a beautiful, parabolic arc. The golden liquid caught the light—a sparkling, expensive insult—before connecting with his left cheekbone with a satisfying splat. It dripped from his unfairly thick lashes, down his nose, and soaked into the heroic wool of his uniform.
The gasps were sharp, a ripping sound through the party.
The businessman scrambled backward as if scalded. "I—I must—my wife—" he stammered, vanishing into the crowd.
Silence. Heavy, stunned, delicious silence.
My voice cut through it, clean and clear as shattered glass. "You absolute walnut. Did your mother raise you in a barn, or did the military just beat all the manners out of you?"
The whispers exploded, a cacophony of scandalized delight.
"She didn't—"
"—to a war hero—"
"—she'll be ruined—"
"—always was unhinged—"
Captain Theodore Ashford, society's golden boy, the pride of the empire, stood there, dripping. He didn't flinch. Didn't wipe his face. His expression was… unreadable. A statue carved from composure.
Perfect.
My heart hammered a victorious rhythm against my ribs.That was five hundred hatred points if I'd ever seen them. A masterstroke.
System, I thought, grinning internally. Pay up.
A chime, soft and cold, sounded only in my mind.
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION:
Plus five hundred points
Current balance: eight thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds .
Warning: Target designated as HIGH VALUE INDIVIDUAL. Threat level elevated. Proceed with extreme caution.Possibly apologise.
I mentally swatted the System away. Apologize? Please. I was on a roll.
The Captain finally moved. With slow, deliberate care, he dabbed his cheek, jaw, and collar with a pristine white handkerchief—more terrifying than any tantrum.
"Lady Cruelton," he said. His voice was calm. Dangerously, impossibly calm. "That was a 1928 Dom Pérignon. Given the current war rations, that bottle was, for all intents and purposes, irreplaceable."
My bravado faltered for a second. This… was not in the script. Where was the fury? The outrage? I glanced around, but the crowd was just a blur of wide eyes and open mouths.
I recovered, forcing my grin wider, riding the brittle high. "Was it?" I shrugged, the picture of casual cruelty. "Tasted like expensive regret to me."
Victory. It tasted sweeter than any champagne. I turned on my heel, the taffeta whipping around my ankles, ready to stride off, to bask, to plan my next move—
His hand shot out and closed around my wrist.
It wasn't painful. It was… definite. Like being handcuffed by a principle. His thumb rested over my racing pulse, a detective finding a clue.
I stared at his hand, then up at him. "Is there a problem, Captain? Thirsty? I have a backup." I wiggled the other full glass in my free hand.
He ignored it, leaning in. His scent—wool, starched linen, and undaunted male—wrapped around me. His words were a quiet rumble for my ears only. "The performance was compelling. The motivation, however, is lacking."
"My motivation," I hissed, "is a deep-seated aversion to boring garden parties and men who stand like handsome statues."
"We're not finished," he said, as if stating a simple fact. "You're going to tell me what you're really running from. And it's clearly not me."
The world tilted. The garden sounds—whispers, music, clinking glasses—muffled. I felt a violent shock of panic.
In my mind, the System didn't chime. It screamed.
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION:
CRITICAL WARNING— INTEREST DETECTED.
NARRATIVE ANOM
ALY.
MISSION PARAMETERS COMPROMISED.
ADJUST CALCULATIONS.
ADJUST—
The words flashed, red and urgent, behind my eyes.
My smile, my glorious, victorious smile, froze solid on my face.
Wait.
What?