Chapter 36: Emerald Envy
The emerald silk was a cold shock against her skin. Aurora stood before the full-length mirror in the hotel’s penthouse suite, the city lights a distant, dizzying tapestry behind her. The dress was all architecture and absence—a severe, sleek front that plunged into a deep V, held up by mere faith, and a back that was simply not there at all. The fabric hugged her hips before falling in a liquid pool at her feet.
“It’s a lot of dress,” she said to her reflection, her voice small in the luxurious room.
“It’s a lot of you,” Callum replied from the doorway.
He leaned against the frame, already in his tuxedo. The black fabric stretched across his shoulders, the crisp white shirt making his tan look deeper, his green eyes darker. He looked like a watch advertisement. He also looked like he hadn’t blinked in a full minute.
“You’re staring,” she said, adjusting a strap that didn’t exist.
“I’m memorizing.” He pushed off the doorframe and came to stand behind her. His hands hovered just above the bare skin of her back, a whisper of heat. “This is strategic. They’ll be so busy looking at you, they’ll forget what questions they meant to ask.”
“Or they’ll have twice as many.”
He met her eyes in the mirror. His hands finally settled on her shoulders, his thumbs tracing her collarbones. “You handled the Bernabéu. This is just a room full of rich people pretending to care about a cause. You’ll be terrifying.”
She leaned back into him, just slightly. The last seventy-two hours had been a cyclone. Her quiet writer’s life had been atomized. Her father had called, thrilled and bewildered. Her agent had emailed six times about “capitalizing on the visibility.” Her inbox was a graveyard of interview requests. Through it all, Callum had been a fixed point, his phone buzzing constantly with management’s anxieties, his hand finding hers under various tables.
“Leo will be there?” she asked.
“Leo and two others you won’t see. They’ll keep the vultures at a respectful distance. Mostly.”
The gala was at a contemporary art museum, all sharp angles and cavernous spaces. The red carpet was a gauntlet of shouted names and blinding light. Callum’s grip on her hand was firm, his media smile switched on. He paused for pictures, his body angled toward her, a protective curve.
“Callum! Who’s the designer?”
“Callum, over here!”
“Aurora! Aurora, look here!”
She turned, following the sound of her own name, a surreal flutter in her stomach. The flash was a physical heat. She felt the emerald silk drinking the light.
Inside, the noise morphed into a low, expensive hum. Crystal, laughter, the clink of champagne flutes. They were swept into a current of introductions: aging oligarchs with young wives, Hollywood actors championing obscure charities, football legends with knowing eyes who clapped Callum on the back and said, “Finally settled, eh?”
Aurora held her champagne flute like a lifeline, her smile feeling carved from wood. She observed, a novelist’s instinct kicking in. The way the women’s eyes tracked Callum, then assessed her. The subtle adjustments of ties, the positioning of bodies for advantage. It was a game, and everyone knew the rules except her.
Then a man detached himself from a group. She recognized him—Ian Croft, a columnist for a notorious tabloid, known for his salacious, lawsuit-skirting insinuations. He had a predator’s smile and eyes that missed nothing.
“Callum! A triumph on Saturday. That goal was a piece of art.” His handshake was overly long. His gaze slid to Aurora. “And this must be the muse.Aurora. We’ve all been so curious.”
“Ian,” Callum said, his tone cooling several degrees.
“I have to ask, Aurora,” Ian pressed, ignoring the warning. “It’s quite the Cinderella story. Anonymous novelist one day, on the arm of a global superstar the next. What’s the secret? Did you send him a manuscript?”
The small circle around them quieted. Callum’s arm tensed under her hand. She could feel him gathering a retort, something sharp and dismissive that would fuel tomorrow’s headline: Nordskov Loses Temper at Charity Gala.
Aurora took a small sip of her champagne. The bubbles were sharp, clarifying. She let her glasses slide down her nose a little, peering over them with a look of academic curiosity. “Actually, Ian, it was statistics.”
A beat of silence. Ian blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“Your piece last week,” she said, her voice light, conversational. “The one analyzing Callum’s decline in creativity in the final third? You used his passing completion percentage from the 89th minute onward as your key metric.”
Ian’s smile tightened. “It’s a relevant stat.”
“It’s a statistically irrelevant sample size,” she corrected gently, as if explaining to a slightly slow student. “Over the season, his completion rate in the attacking third after the 85th minute is eighty-two percent. The league average is seventy-four. If you’d compared his progressive passes per ninety against the top five midfielders in the league, you’d have found he’s first. But that wouldn’t have supported your narrative of a ‘late-game collapse,’ would it?”
The air around them changed. A few people coughed to hide laughs. Ian’s face blotched with pink. “I suppose you’re an expert now?”
“No,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Just a fan with a calculator. And access to a better database, apparently.” She tapped her temple. “It’s all up here. My father’s a baker. He loves numbers almost as much as he loves football. It’s a family trait.”
She felt Callum’s stunned stillness beside her. Then, a low, delighted chuckle vibrated through his arm.
Ian Croft stammered something about deadlines and melted back into the crowd.
Callum leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. His breath was warm. “You memorized my stats.”
“I read an article. It was poorly researched.”
“That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmured, his voice a rough scrape. “I think I need a minute.”
She turned her head, their noses almost touching in the glittering dim light. “Still think I need your media training?”
His green eyes flashed with something primal, the polished celebrity facade evaporating. He took her flute and set it on a passing tray. Without a word, he took her hand and led her through the throng, nodding tightly at acquaintances but not stopping. He found a dim, semi-private alcove behind a towering, abstract sculpture of twisted metal.
The second they were obscured, he pushed her gently against the cool marble wall, his body caging hers. His hands framed her face, his thumbs tracing her jaw. “Where did that come from?” he demanded, his voice thick.
“He was rude. And wrong.”
He kissed her. It wasn’t gentle. It was a claiming, a release of the tension from the whole relentless week. She could taste the champagne on his tongue, feel the suppressed energy in the hard lines of his body against hers. One hand slid down the column of her throat, over the bare slope of her shoulder, coming to rest on the dangerous dip of her lower back, his fingers splaying possessively on her skin.
When he finally broke for air, they were both breathing raggedly. “I want to leave,” he growled against her lips. “I want to take this dress off you with my teeth.”
Aurora’s blood was singing. The power of it—shutting down that man, feeling Callum unravel—was an intoxicant stronger than anything in the room. She placed a hand on his chest, feeling his heart hammer under the pristine shirt. She smiled, slow and deliberate, the same smile she’d given the reporter.
“We can’t,” she whispered, her lips brushing his. “We haven’t bid on the silent auction. And it would be poor form to leave before the paddle raise.”
He stared at her, incredulous, desire and frustration warring in his face. “You are actually trying to kill me.”
She slipped under his arm, straightening her dress. She caught a glimpse of their reflection in a dark window: him, dishevelled and desperate against the marble; her, a sleek emerald pillar of calm, her hair perfectly in place.
She leaned back in, kissed him once, softly, on the corner of his mouth. “Clock’s running, Nordskov. Earn it.”
Then she walked back into the roar of the gala, leaving him in the shadowed alcove. She didn’t look back. She could feel his gaze on her bare back like a brand, and for the first time all night, her smile felt entirely, unshakably real.