Chapter 3 - Playing House with a Devil
The Field Museum was ablaze with crystalline light, classical violins, and the low hum of champagne-soaked gossip. As soon as Cassian guided Penelope through the grand arched entrance, his hand resting possessively on the small of her back, the room went entirely still.
Flashing bulbs exploded around them like miniature supernovas. Society photographers jostled for position, calling out Cassian's name, their camera lenses tracing every contour of Penelope’s frame.
"Smile, darling," Cassian murmured near her temple, leaning down so his cheek brushed hers. The intimate gesture looked effortlessly romantic to the cameras, but Penelope felt the steel beneath his posture. "They want to see if you flinch. Don't give them the satisfaction."
Penelope took a breath, letting her natural warmth return. She didn't shrink under the gazes; instead, she straightened her posture and offered the cameras the same open, disarming smile she gave her customers every morning at seven o'clock.
"Mr. Mercer!" a voice boomed from the crowd. A tall, silver-haired man in a tuxedo pushed through the knot of socialites, holding a martini. His eyes were cold, sharp, and unmistakably predatory. "I didn't think you'd dare show your face after the grand jury issued those warrants on your shipping manifests yesterday."
"Special Prosecutor Warren," Cassian responded coolly, not stepping back an inch. "I believe you're familiar with the concept of private enterprise. Or does your office now investigate every boat that docks in Lake Michigan?"
"We investigate criminality, Cassian," Warren sneered. Then his gaze dropped to Penelope, his eyes scanning her dress, the ring, and the radiant flush on her cheeks. "And who is this charming distraction? Another legal consultant on your payroll?"
"This is Penelope Blake," Cassian said, his voice dropping into a dangerous rumble. He pulled Penelope tighter against his side, his fingers splaying across her waist in a gesture that was unmistakably territorial. "My fiancée."
Warren choked on his sip of gin. "Fiancée? You?"
"We are announcing our union tonight," Cassian continued smoothly, nodding toward the gathered journalists who were furiously typing notes on their tablets. "Penelope owns The Buttered Crumb in South Loop. While you spend your taxpayers' money inventing conspiracies, Warren, my fiancée and I have spent our evenings planning the foundation for the Mercer Children's Charity wing."
Penelope stepped into the conversation naturally, placing her manicured hand over Cassian’s lapel. "Cassian is very modest, Mr. Warren. He prefers to do his good work away from the cameras. But I suppose men who only operate in courtroom drama wouldn't understand real generosity."
A muffled gasp went through the circle of onlookers. Warren’s face flushed a deep, mottled purple. He stared at Penelope as if she had struck him across the mouth with a riding crop.
"Well," Warren hissed, recovering his composure. "Congratulations. Let's see if the wedding bells ring before the trial begins."
As the prosecutor stalked away, Cassian looked down at Penelope. A rare, genuine smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "You handled that with remarkable cruelty, Miss Blake. I am thoroughly impressed."
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"He insulted my fiancé," Penelope teased softly, leaning into him as another camera flashed. "And I take my investments very seriously, Mr. Mercer."
For a fleeting second, the cold mask dropped from Cassian’s features. His gaze darkened with something raw and hungry, and Penelope realized with a jolt of panic that pretending to love him was becoming dangerously easy.
