Page 12 of Misconducts & Temptation

And it was that curiosity—hers and mine—that kept pulling me back into thoughts of her.

The valet took my car keys with a practiced smile, but I barely registered his presence. My thoughts were already miles away, wrapped around the enigma of that locker room attendant. As I walked toward the entrance, the luxury of the venue hit me like a punch to the gut.

The place was gaudy as hell. Chandeliers dripped from the ceiling like they were made of liquid gold, casting a sickly glow over everything. Marble floors gleamed beneath my feet, polished to a blinding shine. There were too many mirrors, too many reflections of people pretending to be something they weren’t.

I hated it.

Stepping inside, I pulled out a cigarette and rolled it between my fingers. The urge to light it up was almost overpowering, but I knew the rules. No smoking indoors. Not that it stopped me from wanting to rebel, even in this small way.

"It's showtime," I muttered under my breath, shoving the unlit cigarette back into my pocket.

I could already hear the dull roar of conversation and laughter coming from the main hall. It was filled with people who’d been groomed for moments like these—polished, practiced, perfect. They were masters of the art of pretense, much like my father.

He'd be in there somewhere, probably schmoozing with Lola's parents and making sure every detail was perfect for tonight's big announcement. My engagement to Lola. A match made in business heaven but personal hell.

Masks. Everyone was in masks. It was like some twisted masquerade ball where everyone played a part, hiding their true selves behind layers of expensive fabric and false smiles. I recognized some faces from Crestwood Academy—peers who probably thought they were better than me because they didn't have a leash around their necks. But tonight, I couldn't care less about them.

As I made my way deeper into the venue, I couldn't help but notice the lavish decorations—flowers that probably cost more than most people made in a month, draped elegantly over every available surface. The air smelled faintly of expensive perfume and desperation.

It was suffocating.

I navigated through the sea of well-dressed guests with practiced ease, offering nods and forced smiles where necessary. My suit drew more than a few curious glances and disapproving looks, which only fueled my resolve. Let them think what they want.

I found myself at the edge of the room, scanning the crowd for familiar faces while trying to maintain an air of indifference. This night was just another performance in a long series of acts designed to keep up appearances.

But no matter how hard I tried to blend in or play along, I couldn't shake the image of her—the girl from the locker room—standing there with those green eyes full of something real in a world full of fakery.

And as much as I hated to admit it, that flicker of authenticity was something I craved more than any material comfort this life could offer.

I made my way to the bar, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. Pouring myself a whiskey, I took a long drink, letting the burn chase away some of the bitterness gnawing at my insides. The liquid warmth did little to settle my nerves, but it was better than nothing.

My eyes scanned the crowd, searching for anything to distract me from the impending nightmare of an engagement announcement. And then I saw her—Lola.

She stood in the center of a group of her friends, her harpies. Lola was like a vision straight out of an old Hollywood film—dark hair cascading in waves over her shoulders, eyes that could pierce through armor, and a body that could stop traffic. She had that same magnetic allure as a gothic actress, an effortless elegance that commanded attention.

My gut twisted in disgust at the sight of her. Lola was everything I despised—manipulative, controlling, and utterly fake. A lying bitch. I downed the rest of my whiskey in one gulp, hoping it would dull the nausea roiling in my stomach.

Tonight had to be about something else—anything else. The thought crossed my mind like a dark promise: I intended to fuck at least three girls tonight, hopefully at the same time. If Lola caught me in the act, maybe she'd finally call off this charade of an engagement.

"You look like shit."

The voice cut through my thoughts like a knife. I looked up and saw Damien Sinclaire standing there, his silver-blond hair falling in disarray around his face. He had that same brooding intensity as a warrior—stormy blue eyes that seemed to hold a world of chaos behind them and an athletic frame that spoke of controlled power.

"Thanks for noticing," I replied, unable to muster any real sarcasm.

Damien smirked, his eyes flicking over my striped suit with amusement. "Nice outfit. Trying to make a statement?"

"Something like that," I muttered.

He chuckled darkly, leaning against the bar next to me. "Good luck with that."

I grunted, acknowledging Damien's presence but barely registering his words.

"I can't believe you showed up," Damien said, a sly grin spreading across his face. "Adrian thought you wouldn't. Bastard owes me a hundred bucks."

I smirked, a small victory in this sea of defeat.

His eyes narrowed as he studied me. "Why are you here, Douglas? You clearly don't want to be."

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