The decorations were uninspiring—beige and white dominated the room in a dull monotony that seemed to mock the supposed happiness of the occasion. It was as if joy itself had been carefully muted, pressed flat by some oppressive hand. The guests, too, appeared burdened. Conversations, where they existed, were subdued, punctuated by awkward silences. Yet, amidst this somber gathering, Arthur stood out. His features had an inscrutable tension that seemed to draw the very air from the room. Or so it seemed to Dulce, whose vivid imagination and tendency to dwell on emotions made Arthur's mood feel like the most striking and undeniable aspect of the entire evening.
She couldn't help but wonder—was it the decoration, the guests, or the man himself that seemed to overshadow the entire celebration? What was being celebrated? Certainly not love. At least, not the sort of love that stirred hearts and painted the world in vibrant hues. This was love in its most unconvincing disguise—a cold, colorless thing, dressed up for the occasion but fooling no one, least of all her.
The dress Dulce selected was perfect for the occasion—or, at least, as perfect as the occasion warranted. Her wardrobe boasted a spectrum of choices: rich reds, playful blues, and vibrant yellows, any of which might have lent a semblance of cheer to her appearance. Yet she had reached, unhesitatingly, for black. Black, the color of finality, of mourning, of endings. As the fabric clung to her skin, she could not help but think of funerals. And as she stood among the muted conversations and polite chatter at the party, the familiar, haunting numbness from her mother's funeral crept back into her chest. On the surface, everything appeared normal: people mingling, laughing, being themselves. Yet beneath it all, Dulce felt a quiet sense of loss gnawing at her.
Was she mourning the inevitable end of whatever fragile connection she had once imagined with Arthur?
Speaking of which, she thought bitterly as his voice slid into her ear, low and familiar.
"How are you enjoying the party?" Arthur asked, his tone polite, as if they hadn't been kissing mere weeks ago.
Dulce swallowed. She felt the weight of his gaze pressing against her. "It's... very..." Her words faltered as her eyes drifted across the room, to the beige walls and listless decorations, to the yawns barely stifled behind polite hands and the empty smiles exchanged. She turned back to him, her lips curving into something that might have passed for a smile. "...entertaining," she finished, choosing the word with care.
Arthur's mouth twitched, just slightly, as if suppressing a smirk or a sigh. It was impossible to tell which. "I'm glad you think so," he replied evenly, though his eyes—oh, those beautiful eyes—flickered something she couldn't quite place.
"And you?" she asked, faking interest as she reached for a cupcake from a passing tray. "How does it feel to celebrate your happily ever after in a room that looks as lively as a waiting room at a dentist's office?"
The jab was subtle, wrapped neatly in her sweet voice, but Arthur caught it. His lips curved into a practiced smile. "It's not the decorations that make the party," he replied smoothly, his voice dripping with charm. "It's the company."
Dulce raised the cupcake to her lips, hiding the way her jaw tightened at his words. The company. Of course. She took a small bite, willing herself to ignore the way his eyes lingered on her.
Arthur shifted closer, just enough for her to catch the scent of his cologne. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping lower and softer. "Do you even realize what you do, Dulce?" he asked, his tone calm, almost conversational, but there was an edge beneath it. "Standing there, pretending you're untouchable. Acting like I haven't thought about you every damn day since—" He stopped himself, exhaling sharply, his jaw tightening.
The words hit her and she tried to steady her breathing, to swallow the sudden lump forming in her throat. "Don't," she said softly, her voice barely a whisper. "Don't say things like that."
"Why not?" he asked, his tone achingly earnest, the teasing edge gone entirely. He tilted his head slightly, searching her face. "Why not? It's true. I can't help it, Dulce, I—" He stopped himself again. "Do you know how insane it is? To stand here, so close, and know I can't have you? To watch you, knowing exactly how your lips taste, how you sound, and still pretend I'm not thinking about it every damn second?"
Dulce should have walked away, should have said something dismissive, but his words had planted her in place. "Arthur," she managed, "you're getting married."
"Yes," he said quietly, his gaze still on her. "But do you think I've stopped caring? That I could ever stop?" His eyes searched hers, burning with a longing that made her feel strange. "Dulce, I've tried to forget you—God, I've tried. But no matter what I do, there you are." His frustration was palpable as his hand closed over hers, warm and firm. "Goddamn it, why did I have to bump into you?" Dulce's breath caught as she glanced down at their joined hands, then quickly around the room. Her heart pounded as the sound of classical music swelled in the background, drowning out the quiet hum of conversation. No one seemed to notice them, their voices swallowed by the grandeur of the party. And yet she felt exposed and vulnerable.
"Why did you choose him?" he murmured. She followed his gaze to Pierre, who was leaning back in a casual sway, a drink in one hand and an infuriatingly charming smile on his face. He was surrounded by people—laughing, gesturing, entirely at ease. She felt a heat rise in her chest, the kind that bordered too close to jealousy for comfort.
She turned back to Arthur. "I didn't choose anyone," she snapped under her breath, her voice sharp enough to draw his attention back to her. But even as she spoke, her mind betrayed her, flashing images of last night—the heat of Pierre's hands, the low murmur of his voice, the delicious weight of his body against hers...
Dulce pulled her hand back as though burned, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure he could hear it. "You don't know what you're talking about." she whispered, her voice unsteady.
Before Arthur could respond, Dulce's gaze snapped back to the dance floor, where a woman had slipped her hand into Pierre's. She blinked, her vision sharpening as she took in the details—the girl's perfectly styled hair, the way she leaned just slightly into Pierre as they moved together. Heat rushed through Dulce again.
Without a word to Arthur, she turned and strode toward the dance floor, her heels clicking against the marble with determination. When she reached Pierre, her breath came quicker than she wanted to admit. "Having fun, are we?" she said, her tone clipped as her eyes flicked pointedly to the girl holding his hand.
Pierre turned his head lazily, his expression calm, almost amused, as though he had been expecting her all along. His eyes dragged over her face, slow and deliberate, before his lips curled into the faintest smirk. "I was," he said, his voice low, smooth, and unbothered. "But it looks like someone's feeling a little possessive."
"Don't flatter yourself," Dulce bit out, though her voice wavered slightly. Her gaze darted to the girl again, who looked up at her curiously, her features delicate and familiar.
He glanced at the woman briefly, as though she were a passing thought, before turning his full attention back to Dulce. His gaze dropped, raking over her in a way that felt almost indecent, lingering enough to make her stomach twist. Finally, his eyes met hers again.
"Jealous, Dulce?" he murmured, stepping closer, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "Careful. I like you better when you're not pretending to be indifferent."
She scoffed, trying to ignore the goosebumps he caused her. "Like I said, don't flatter yourself."
"Oh, but I don't need to," he countered, his tone teasing, but the way his eyes stayed locked on hers sent more shivers down her spine. He leaned in slightly, his hand brushing lightly against her hip. "You know that if you want my attention, you don't have to make a scene."
Dulce opened her mouth to argue, but the words stuck in her throat when he lowered his voice further. "I have to admit, I love seeing you like this. Angry. Flushed. Like you're about to lose control."
Her breath stopped, and she stepped back instinctively. Before she could retreat fully, his hand caught hers, his thumb brushing over her knuckles, gently and possessive.
"You're so quick to jump to conclusions," he said.
She followed his gaze, her chest tightening when she finally registered Céline's face. The elegant features, the perfectly styled hair— unmistakably Arthur's fiancée.
The tension drained from her shoulders as realization settled over her, leaving her feeling slightly foolish.
Pierre leaned closer again, his breath warm against her ear as he whispered, "Jealous, weren't you?"
"I wasn't," she hissed.
He chuckled, the sound low and intimate, sending another unwelcome shiver down her spine. His fingers tightened slightly around hers, his thumb still stroking lazily. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you wanted to drag me out of here and remind me exactly who I belong to."
Dulce shot him a sharp glare but her heart skipped beats. "You're insufferable," she muttered, pulling her hand free.
"And you're irresistible when you're mad," he said, his voice softening. "Shall we dance, or are you too busy pretending you don't care?"
Pierre didn't wait for her answer. He reached for her hand again, his fingers sliding against hers with a familiarity that made her knees weak.
"Relax," he murmured, his hand settling at the small of her back as he guided her toward the dance floor. "Let me show you how much fun we can have when you're not overthinking everything."
And against her better judgment, she let him. As they moved together, his hand pressed just a little lower than necessary, his grip firm enough to feel possessive.
(A/N: Are you guys liking this story? Don't forget to vote to let me know if you like it. I feel like I use 100% of my brain when writing this. If only I spoke half as cultured as I write...)