Poised with a natural authority that made the other guests seem like set dressing, Alistair stood with Selene by his side, their silhouettes framed against the golden light. Selene's laugh was delicate, rehearsed. Alistair's smile was thin, polite, but his eyes—ah, those eyes—shifted, flickering toward Almos's direction for a moment too long.
A spark. Recognition. Curiosity.
Almos's lips curved into a foxlike grin. Perfect.
He leaned closer to Maxwell, still keeping his attention fixed on Alistair. "Darling," he whispered sweetly, "why don't you fetch us a drink? Something red. Something strong."
Maxwell's gaze softened with eager obedience. "Anything for you." He brushed his lips against Almos's knuckles before hurrying off toward the bar.
Free at last.
Almos straightened his white tux, his every movement deliberate, confident, the very image of controlled seduction. He began weaving through the sea of people, each step calculated to draw him closer to Alistair. And as he walked, he left behind whispers, glances, and tiny trails of envy—the kind of entrance no one could forget.
But underneath that cool confidence, his pulse thrummed with anticipation. This was the beginning of the real game—the moment he would face Alistair and start unraveling the absurd "script" of this twisted dream world.
And no matter what it took, Almos intended to rewrite the ending.
Selene was speaking animatedly to another guest, her delicate hand brushing Alistair's arm with the kind of familiarity that made Almos's jaw tighten. Alistair, however, seemed distracted—his eyes flickered toward Almos again, curious, as though trying to place him in the sea of glittering strangers.
Almos's lips curved.
Maxwell returned, balancing two crystal glasses of rich red wine. His face lit up the moment he spotted Almos. "Here you are, love," he said warmly, handing him one.
Almos accepted it with a gracious smile, swirling the crimson liquid as though appraising it. He let Maxwell bask in the illusion a moment longer before dismissing him with a light brush of fingers along his wrist. "Thank you, darling. Why don't you go enjoy the music? I'll only be a moment."
Maxwell hesitated but, caught in Almos's thrall, nodded obediently and drifted toward the orchestra.
Now it was just Almos, the glass, and his target.
He glanced around before dipping a slender fingertip against the rim of the goblet, whispering an incantation under his breath. The liquid shimmered for a heartbeat before settling into stillness again, carrying with it a subtle enchantment—something to loosen inhibitions, make the air around Alistair just a little heavier, a little warmer.
The perfect kind of spell: invisible, deniable, effective.
His husband—though Alistair didn't remember that part—looked every bit the role of powerful CEO, his sharp profile illuminated as he spoke with Selene. She clung to his side, the perfect picture of an attentive assistant, and though her smile was polished, Almos could smell the ambition on her like cheap perfume.
"Hello Boss" Almos purred, bowing his head just enough to pass as deferential while his lips curved into a playful smile. "It's unexpected to see you here tonight too"
Alistair's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, the flicker of recognition there—Almos could feel it, like the ghost of a memory brushing against the edges of his mind.
Selene frowned. 'He works in the office' she thought, her tone edged with suspicion. "I wasn't aware you were invited."
Almos flashed her a dazzling smile, effortlessly brushing aside her attempt to expose him. "Invited? Oh, no, Miss Selene. I'm simply where I need to be." He pressed the glass into Alistair's hand before she could protest further, lowering his voice just enough to lace it with something intimate. "And tonight, I am meant to be here."
Alistair studied him for a long moment. Then, perhaps just to dismiss the tension, he raised the glass to his lips.
The spell bloomed instantly.
A faint flush touched Alistair's cheeks. He shifted slightly, his posture betraying a rare discomfort. The stain of wine at the corner of his mouth seemed to multiply, a deep blotch darkening the lapel of his immaculate suit as though it had spilled, though no hand had tipped it. The enchantment had done its work: the illusion of a stain, the reality of discomfort.
Selene gasped softly. "Sir, your jacket—"
Alistair's jaw tightened, irritation flashing across his face. He set the glass aside. "I'll go change."
Almos inclined his head smoothly, stepping in before Selene could volunteer. "Allow me to assist. I know the way to a private room" His voice carried no hesitation, only quiet confidence, leaving no room for argument.
Selene's lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes following them with barely concealed suspicion as Almos guided Alistair away from the crowd, toward the private hallways that led to the reserved rooms.
Inside, Almos's heart thrummed with victory. Every step away from Selene, every inch closer to Alistair alone, was another piece of the game falling into place.
And when the door clicked shut behind them, sealing them in the quiet of a private lounge, Almos finally allowed the mask of deference to slip. He leaned back against the door, his eyes glinting with mischief.
"Well," he murmured, voice dripping with velvet, "it seems fate really does enjoy giving us second chances, doesn't it, Alistair?"