Chapter 5 – First Interference
The mansion's dining room gleamed under the soft glow of crystal chandeliers, the table set as though for royalty rather than reality television contestants. Candles flickered, casting playful shadows across polished silverware and pristine napkins. The couple I was assigned to sabotage—Jenna and Liam, the golden-haired archetypes of perfection—sat across from each other, eyes locked in that nauseating, over-the-top "newly in love" gaze. My stomach churned with a mixture of dread and anticipation.
I perched on the edge of a nearby velvet armchair, notebook abandoned, fingers drumming against my knee as if the rhythm could prepare me for the chaos I was about to unleash. The producers had briefed me: insert myself at the exact moment of vulnerability, disrupt their connection subtly but memorably, and do it with charm. Simple enough.
"Simple," I muttered under my breath. "Ha. Simple."
Taking a deep breath, I slid from the chair, gliding toward them with the practiced casualness of someone who'd been on stage far too many times, someone who could make an entrance look effortless even if their knees were about to betray them. I was nothing if not dramatic.
"Hello, lovebirds," I chirped, voice airy, almost sweet. Jenna's smile faltered the instant she saw me. Liam's head tilted slightly, a polite confusion flickering across his features. Perfect. First beat hit.
"I didn't... we weren't expecting—" Jenna began, but I interrupted with the precision of a surgical strike.
"Oh, don't tell me! You were in the middle of something intense, weren't you? Let me guess... deep, meaningful eye contact?" I batted my eyelashes with exaggerated charm, leaning in so closely that my elbow brushed Liam's arm. He froze, caught in a moment of confusion, as though he were deciding whether to laugh, pull away, or question reality itself.
Jenna's mouth opened, closed, and opened again—a fish out of water. Liam shifted awkwardly, glancing at the cameras, then at me, his lips twitching in that very controlled, polite smile that screamed, I have no idea how to respond, but I'll try anyway.
"And here I thought I'd just casually stroll by and admire the scenery," I said, deliberately brushing my fingers across the table in an innocuous, yet entirely intrusive gesture, "but it seems I've stumbled into a moment of undeniable intensity. Should I... join? Or is this some private, sacred ritual of staring at each other's souls?"
Jenna gasped, and I swear I heard Liam's internal monologue audibly shout help. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
I slid my chair closer, resting my elbows on the table, chin in my hands, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Honestly, you two need to chill. I mean, the tension is palpable. I can practically taste it. Not that I want to, but... if you insist on staring at each other like that, don't be surprised if I get involved."
I could see the hesitation in their movements, the polite discomfort of those who weren't used to being interrupted mid-flirtation by someone whose very presence screamed chaos incarnate.
And then, from across the room, I caught him. Dante. Leaning casually against the doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight, dark eyes tracking my every movement. My chest did a little jump, a nervous, guilty, completely thrilling jump. He looked... irritated. Concerned. Maybe even—God, don't let it be—intrigued.
Heat pooled in my stomach. Every instinct screamed, don't let him see this. Don't let him see you. And yet, part of me—a dangerous, gleeful part—wanted him to watch. To see just how effective I could be, to understand that this was my game, my control, my little rebellion against ten years of mediocrity and criticism.
I turned my attention back to my victims, maintaining the aura of casual interference.
"Liam, darling, do you always get nervous when someone interrupts your perfect date? Or is this... exceptional?" My voice dripped with playful malice, the kind that had directors and producers whispering "star potential" behind my back.
Liam coughed, Jenna blushed a shade so deep it could have been broadcast in HD on the moon. Their reactions were everything the producers had promised, and yet... there was a pang, a flicker of guilt. Because beneath the thrill of disruption, beneath the careful art of calculated chaos, I realized something uncomfortable: I was enjoying this. A little too much.
The cameras whirred as I leaned back, adopting an exaggerated shrug. "What? I'm just being sociable. Someone has to keep the room lively." My laugh was light, teasing, the perfect cover for the tiny thrill that surged inside me whenever I saw the tension ripple across their faces.
But then, from the corner of my eye, Dante shifted. A subtle movement, a tightening of his jaw, a barely perceptible narrowing of his eyes. He wasn't just watching—they were watching me. And suddenly, the playful confidence that had guided my sabotage faltered.
God, he's analyzing everything. Every word, every gesture, every smirk.
I swallowed, forcing my smile to remain bright, playful, casual. Don't let him see the slip. Don't let him see you enjoying this too much. But the truth was undeniable: my heart raced, my stomach flipped, and somewhere in the messy, chaotic tangle of my emotions, a spark ignited. A spark that had nothing to do with strategy and everything to do with him.
"Alexis?" Jenna's voice cut through my reverie, faintly trembling. "Are you... are you seriously just sitting here making fun of us?"
I gasped, pretending to be shocked, placing a hand over my heart. "Making fun? Heaven forbid. I'm simply... providing constructive entertainment! After all, who else is going to keep you two from falling asleep mid-romance?"
Liam laughed awkwardly, shaking his head. "You're... incredible."
"Thank you," I said, curtsying dramatically. "I accept compliments with grace, even in moments of complete, utter intrusion."
Behind my playful mask, guilt pricked sharply. This is cruel. They don't deserve this. Yet, part of me—the part that had been crushed, overlooked, and humiliated for a decade—thrived. For once, I was in control. For once, the world was bending to my mischief, however small.
I noticed Dante taking a half-step forward, his eyes darkening ever so slightly. My heart skipped. His presence alone made my careful strategy feel simultaneously thrilling and perilous. He's going to see right through me. He always does.
The couple's date fell apart spectacularly in slow motion, as if the universe had choreographed it specifically for my amusement. Spilled wine, flustered apologies, awkward laughs—it was chaotic, yet almost beautiful in its absurdity. And I? I sat back, perfectly composed, savoring the delicate balance between comedy and havoc I had orchestrated.
Then Dante moved, gliding across the room with a predator's grace, subtle but deliberate. He stopped just behind me, gaze fixed, and leaned slightly closer than necessary. His voice, low and charged, whispered, "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
I froze, pretending to adjust my hair, but my cheeks betrayed me. "I... uh... it's... professional?" I offered lamely, but the sparkle in my eye told a different story.
He smirked, eyes gleaming with mischief and something deeper, something dangerously intimate. "Professional, huh? You've been professional for ten years, and I've never seen that kind of... flair."
I swallowed hard. The words felt like fire against my skin, warming, electrifying, impossible to ignore. My internal battle waged fiercely: amusement versus guilt, strategy versus desire, chaos versus... him.
For a fleeting moment, I imagined him taking my hand, pulling me aside, asking if this madness was really necessary. I imagined confessing everything—the games, the schemes, the thrill, the tiny confession of chaos-driven delight that I couldn't quite hide.
And then he glanced toward the cameras, a subtle reminder that we weren't alone, that my performance wasn't just for him, it was for everyone. Reality. The show. The world.
I laughed softly, a careful, controlled sound that masked the storm inside me. "Well," I said lightly, "if I didn't have this much fun, someone would have to invent a new disaster for me to create."
His smirk widened, but there was a flicker—an eyebrow raised, a challenge in his gaze. You're playing a dangerous game, Alexis. Don't forget it.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of strategic interruptions, carefully timed remarks, and laughter that was sometimes real, sometimes carefully calculated. I noticed more and more the way Dante watched, the subtle shifts in his posture whenever I drew near, the tension that seemed to coil tighter every time I executed a perfect little disaster.
By the end of the night, the couple had survived... barely. My hands were sore from clapping my way through laughter. My cheeks ached from smiling, flirting, teasing. And my heart? My heart was both exhilarated and terrified.
I had interfered. I had conquered. I had laughed. I had ruined a dinner. And in doing so, I realized something terrifyingly delicious: even amidst chaos, even amidst strategic sabotage, even amidst the glaring eyes of cameras and social media, the spark between Dante and me hadn't dimmed—it had ignited.
A spark that I wasn't sure I could—or should—ignore.
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