VI.

O P E N I N G  G A M B I T

—aka, a stoic face of a doting lover,

EXT— A PARTY.

VENICE, ITALY — DUSK.

SCENE I.

KRISTOFF PARK FELL like a tower of cards.

Completely, stunningly, and irrevocably.

Every time we walked anywhere, I was holding onto his arm like a lovestruck damsel, pretty and enamoured, dressed in fineries he had bought the same day. Equal to that, as a lover and genuine boyfriend, he was an absolute gentleman. He helped me out of cars, used his imposing stature and scarier expression to move people out of our way, and bought me a new jewellery every morning besides my heavily creamed coffee.

This morning, it was a complicated diamond encrusted anklet. It took a while to figure out, dangling almost a metre long. But you tie it several times below the knee in tiny loops, before it drapes down and features a glittering butterfly mid-way.

It was gaudy and ridiculous, and I showed it off with a white silk dress that had a thigh slit, a plunging neckline and near exposed back. The fabric shimmered and rippled like water against the flickering lights of Venice popped as dusk came. Or maybe like a fairy's skin, silky and bright, the lights touched it like reverent hands of angels— wanting to spend a few burns to set it alight, mimicking halos.

"Un angelo," the driver murmured as I stepped into the gondola.

I smiled in gratitude, tilting my chin down in mock bashful response.

Of course, I wasn't stupid enough to trounce off half naked— it was in the middle of Italy's incoming fall. I had asked for a new, fully white fur coat to go with everything else. Un angelo, indeed.

I looked grandiose, absurd, and nothing more than the prettiest trophy one could attempt to snatch.

Eyes swivelled and tensed as I stood out from the gondola, ready to come back to sturdier ground as we'd arrive at the location. The driver was eager to help, hands already outstretched, but one sharp movement from my boyfriend already on the other side, with sharper words that I barely understood— "No. Io lo farò." — that he immediately bowed his head, murmuring what I assumed were apologies.

My mouth twitched.

I looked up at him then, lashes thick and heavy in makeup, at the cutting look of the sourest man in the city as he gripped my hands in his as a way of balance? Of reminder? Of caution? I had no idea, probably all of the above. I was still learning how to read him, and this relationship gave me a better access to figuring out the creature in front of me in small bites.

He was still very much an enigma, but I was a patient student, more than delighted to catch every little bit. And the proximity definitely helped.

Tonight, he was dressed in the darkest of midnight blue, with his hair slicked all the way to one angled side where a few strands framed his face forward. A messier look than usual, but I had requested it.

"A man has to look a little casual when he's around his lover, you know," I had said when he was in front of a vanity mirror and the hairdresser was tittering nervously behind me.

I ran my fingers through his as I kept his blank, unimpressed expression through the mirror with a smile. "The slick backs and black suits are all well and all, it is a signature style, but changing things up now and again, especially with my presence, means you adore me enough to influence you. Especially when I look this good." My eyes flickered briefly to all the strangers in the room, awaiting with bated breath.

I wonder if they understood English? Might as well. I crouched slightly and pressed my temple to his hair. I bit back a laugh as I noticed his eyes go darker. A warning. Undeterred, with the softest voice, I asked, "Baby, won't you try?"

I breathed out a laugh from the memory.

"Careful," he hissed. I looked up, biting another laugh.

His lips were pursed as he help steady me back on dry land, gaze on my tall heels in mild irritation. From helping me? From the heels I impossibly insisted?

He was a funny puzzle. Good for him I didn't mind puzzles, but we were currently in public, much to my amusement.

And he did hire me for a specific reason.

"Smile, baby," I murmured through the ordeal, soft as silks. "You look entirely too constipated for our adoring audience."

He scoffed, focused on making sure I got to steady footing before he let go, fixing his suit.

More than aware of the curious, piercing gazes— I went over to him, slyly covering his body with my own as I helped him smooth out his pristine get-up. "I'm not kidding, my dear. You hired me for a reason. You want to win and I never like choosing a loser, so work with me here."

The reminder is a sore spot, but he knew I was right. I always was.

He sighed, too loud for my liking, but he raised one corner of his mouth into what he still thinks works as a smile. "What do you want me to do?"

I craned my neck, leaning into his personal space a bit more with my palms now flat on his chest, glittering rings reflected back the lights from the party. I angled my head in a way that masked my mouth from view to prevent lip-readers but kept my gaze full of mirth, loving.

"Cradle my elbows— slowly," I snapped as I immediately felt him move to follow my instructions. "Start from my back, maybe rub it a little it's a little cold and you have really nice hands." He made a sound from the back of his throat. I smiled charmingly. "Do it ever so slowly until you reach my elbows. Then lean your head down, maybe throw in a smirk for good measures, until you reach my ear and murmur something. Or mimic murmuring something."

But it has to be believable, was the silent tag. He already knew that. This song and dance wasn't new.

He did as he's told, his touch a comfortable warmth against the cold, slow, deliberate, and unmistakable. Their gazes were burning in curiosity. I closed my eyes, smiling as his breath found my ear, his lips bumping with its shell.

"What more, clever girl?"

I snorted softly at the nickname. "Lean back, kiss my forehead, and move to take my arm."

"Do I have to look at you like I'm in love with you?"

"Hm." I rolled my eyes, unsure if he was teasing or not as his voice was the same, levelled and cool. "That would help, yes."

"Okay."

He leaned back, and with my eyes closed, I waited for his lips on my forehead. But then loudly— audible enough for our audience to hear — he said instead, "Open your eyes, il mio diamante."

I frowned a little. The deviation from my instructions was one thing, but the tone and order was another. Seeing no other option— live audiences were always so tricky, I did as I told as I felt the burning stares ignite holes at the back of my head, everyone captured and silenced at his words.

I met his dark eyes, as passive as ever. He wasn't even smiling, which would've helped—

The rest of my thoughts crashed as I felt his hands, warm and gentle, move from my elbows, up to my shoulders— the absolute picture of slowness — trace the back of my neck with his fingers that had my body automatically shuddering, and gently cup my chin.

I narrowed my eyes at his unchanging expression, refusing to melt at the grasp of his hold. What are you doing, you crazy bastard? my eyes tried to contact.

My eyes narrowed at what looked like a 'smile' but was gone in a second.

Instead, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to my forehead. I made a move to move, both his grip tightened. Then he kissed my nose. Then to my lips, lightly, nothing more than a peck, and met my gaze with a challenging note.

Then leaned back and offered his elbow without another word, his gaze already at the awaiting party, at the flashing lights of numerous cameras capturing what seemed to be a sweet moment between lovers.

Oh, so you're learning now too, huh? My thoughts grumbled, head scrambling to get control. On one hand, I was proud that he can now know what to do and how to dance through my playacting. He made it a little more him— demanding and making his word the absolute — which made it natural sure, but that didn't mean I had to like it.

Okay, maybe I liked it a little bit.

Doesn't make it any less annoying that I do though.

A sweet beast.

But when he turned his eyes to me, a prod of impatience, I sighed internally, keeping my smile joyed and sweet at the very public display of affection (a natural response of his supposed lover), and took his arm, almost gripping his skin a little too tightly. A small revenge.

I could feel his gaze linger but I kept my gaze forward, and soon, we entered the party together.

Another to scene to play, another scenario to bullshit.

The well known beast and the mystery beauty.

SCENE II.

"The best course of action is to follow with what my sister started," he had said back at that restaurant, eyes busy again with the view.

"And that is?"

His eyes flickered to me with an arched eyebrow as if I asked a stupid question. "That you seduced me. That she is winning and getting what she wants. But instead of you disappearing for nine months and coming back with my child, you'll stay close because you've succeeded in winning me over." He smiled, dark and teasing. "I am now nothing more than an enamoured fool who bows at your every whim."

I frowned. "I don't think she'll see that as her winning." Yuna Park knew her brother as a hermit who didn't care for human interaction, in fact, detested it.

"I know. She will see it as a conundrum she'll never believe. Because it's a conundrum that means she lost. She will never expect that I will be enticed by another person, much less fall in love." His mouth curled at the end.

I continued to stare at him, skeptical. "And pray tell, how exactly are you going to show your sister that you fell in love from a one night stand?" Only fools fall in love from one night stands, that's a given. And I didn't think Kristoff Park was a well known fool to most.

But he flicked my concern with a disinterested gaze. "Easy, Ms. La Verne. We are to be seen around together. She knows I'm in Italy for business, so bringing you around in my arm, in my sphere, will be enough. We'll be staying in one hotel together, be seen coming and going. A few light touches here and there will be enough."

That did not add up in my head. My eyes narrowed further, arms crossing. "You're willing to look like a lovesick fool, trotting around a woman you met through a one night stand? In front of people you're supposed to be in business with?"

"You won't be with me during business."

"But you will still be seen with me. By people other than your sister. The great hermit, Kristoff Park, with a mysterious woman. You want this publicised." I pressed. "Not just for her. But everyone else. Why? And don't lie."

His eyes flickered back to me briefly, mouth flat. "I never lie."

I rolled my eyes. "Sure. Answer me."

He continued to stare, unimpressed with my tone. But I kept my crossed arms and frowned right back. I knew I was right. It's not that I could read him like a book, but there are a few things I know for sure about calculative rich men.

One of them is that they're dangerous. The hold of power, of knowing they have the immense ability that they can do anything— be above everyone else, makes the possibility of their cruelty infinite. There's nothing more monstrous than a rich man with a functional brain.

The other, is that every step they do and take, is meaningful.

This man was going to exhaust my brain cells. I was starting to realised he liked speaking in half truths and dance around certain actualities.

I wanted to scoff. That might work on anyone else, but I was an expert in this dance.

He sighed, relenting. "We're going to do this publicly because you are going to play the part of my girlfriend. Yuna isn't the only one who is monitoring my every move, and with as much witnesses as possible, your spot in my life will be absolute."

"Your woman."

"My woman," he agreed.

"Why?"

He sighed. Good, I thought, feel irritated. Kinda wanna see what you'd do, punk.

Alright, maybe I was feeling a little petty.

"What do you mean, 'why'? I thought you were smart?"

I ignored the jib with a glare. "I know you're doing it so you could show to your sister that you flipped her attempt and made her look like a fool, and I know, agreeing with this means that I'm safe— to a certain degree, but why do we need to announce that I'm your girlfriend? Not just a one night stand, not just a lover. But a girlfriend. That's a more permanent title. That's a title with meaning. You want something more from me, from this."

He met my glare with a cool look, watched my features as if he isn't trying to pry my soul from them. "A con artist needs to play a part, yes?" he said softly.

"Sometimes."

"It's just donning another mask. Another character. But this time, the fool is everyone else. Your mark and audience is the world around me. That's what I want from you. That's going to be your job."

SCENE III.

Being reminded of that obnoxiously vague statement that was swiftly followed by his eyes checking his watch and then soon slapping some cash on the table, not even checking if I was following as he went out— caused the irritation to come back in a drawl as I idly sipped my champagne, present at a party I didn't know who was hosting.

In fact, I knew absolutely jacked shit about this party. The people. The location. Everything— honestly? It looked like a crossbreed between an Italian bar mitzvah and a boring opera afterparty. Hell, I barely understood Italian apart from a few obvious instances when it matched the few languages I do know in my arsenal.

If I wasn't here as some obtuse arm candy for the billionaire that's currently surrounded by an array of men, I'd be prowling about and picking apart new prey. Everyone here was new, no one looked like they recognised me.

I could be having the time of my life.

Instead, I continued to sip at my drink, exchanging glances between mournfully glancing at the glittering gold and diamonds about, just an untouched sea of fat fishes, prime and almost overripe for the taking— and to my 'boyfriend', surrounded by businessmen with a piercing look that could be identified as 'intense sexual want', or the actual 'hatred' in my bones.

"Stay here," he said casually as if it wasn't an order, then hesitated at my raised eyebrow. Just slightly. "Please. Just a few minutes."

Just like I was starting to figure him out, he was starting to realised he needed a nicer tone with me to comply.

So I did. Because I'm fucking nice.

Swiping some sort of seafood finger food from an oncoming tray— zested with lemon and definitely, abundantly seafoody without the taste of fish — I glanced back at the men surrounding Kristoff Park.

Their ages differ, though the ones who were more aged seemed to be the bigger demographic. But all of them looked like they were talking about business, amidst the casual way they bantered and looked at each other. Their body language spoke volumes— most of the older gentlemen talking to Kristoff was happy, the rest seemed. . . tensed.

The younger ones of the small group in fact, all look like as if they're sizing each other's dicks up and fluffing up their feathers in response. There's a nervous energy to them, adjusting their clothes, hair, giving Kristoff a few looks, ones that I actually raised my eyebrow at, snorting. Admiration. Envy. An odd mixture. Some— with lust.

I sympathised. You just never know where to step when you're around him. It's not that he's magnetic, charming even as he was most definitely not. In fact, it felt like you pull him in, consciously or unconsciously, and get lost in the translation. As if by mere proximity, he could rid your basic functions useless.

Kristoff Park, of course, looked as if they were all beneath him, regardless of age. He seemed polite enough to those he regarded of equal or higher status, answering with clipped sentences or concise words without fluff. Which most appreciated.

Most of them liked him well enough.

For the umpteenth time in my solitary station as a trophy awaiting its champion's affections, I sighed and caught the eye of the Champagne Server Guy. Although the full frontal stare had subsided, the occasional glances and looks in my direction did not diminish. And that particular waiter was attracted to me, his gaze flickering back toward me as if his eyes were magnets and I was a metal pole. I didn't know if his gaze was just curious or he wanted to catch my attention.

I'm bored. Might as well. I winked at him across the room. He wasn't young enough to blush, and sure enough, he responded by smirking as if he had a chance of taking me home tonight.

I laughed to myself, staring back down at my white wine. Predictable.

Predictable is easy and fun, but it's also boring. But you have to entertain yourself when there's an actual guard dog beside you watching and noting your every move.

And true enough, the guard dog sighed.

"Please keep your flirting to the scenario, Ms. La Verne," the dry voice of Kristoff's very own guard dog said beside me.

I turned to him, neck arching at his impossible height with a pout. "I'm a dog without a bone, Sir Archie. Might as well fish for some willing fresh meat while waiting for my master."

He visibly bristled at the mock in my voice, peering down at me with his glasses and beady eyes. Archie Noh hated it when I spoke to and about his master with disrespect. Or dangled my sexuality and acted coy.

Or existed, really.

To him, I was nuisance he was forced to put up with.

Pissing him off is the few delights in my life in the last few weeks.

Archie Noh is Kristoff's batman. Right hand man. Valet. Glorified Secretary. I met him in the black tinted car that waited for us at the restaurant. Formerly, it was just the two of us who had arrived in the very same car. But when I approached, the door opened and popped out the biggest stick in the mud in existence.

Long, dark hair that fell like a waterfall. Pin straight and jet black, neatly pulled to one shoulder. He had small, almond coloured eyes behind thin glasses, with pressed lips and an impressive nose. He was tall— a few inches taller than Kristoff — with wide shoulders and a more slender built.

He was good looking, not exactly my type, but before I could ask, he already decidedly ignored my existence when he opened the door for Kristoff, left the door open, and rode in the passenger seat.

I gaped at the very obvious disrespect, but Kristoff merely raised an eyebrow at me as if it was my fault for not getting in fast enough.

Then and there as I clamoured to get in, huffing with my annoyance peaked to several new levels, I quietly swore to make his life a living hell.

And it was almost too easy.

"Ms. La Verne," he started, voice stern like a headmaster talking to a pre-schooler. I was always 'Ms. La Verne' to him. The more he insisted on it, the more I wanted to poke his buttons. He said it like a reprimand, like an insult. "You are here as Mr. Park's date. Flirting with a—" His eyes glanced to the waiter with a sneer. " — waiter is hardly an attitude required for Mr. Park's. . . lover."

I couldn't help it, I smiled. Associating me as anything more than a grifter, especially one with intimate ties to his master, made all his insides swirl with disgust. He was very bad at hiding his feelings for me, and for that, I had to give him props.

Lies always felt slimy to me, and they thicken with frequency. His unabashed hatred for me was a refreshing zest.

"D'you know what the title of this little project of ours is, Archie?" He twitched at the use of his name. I always used it to see that.

"I was unaware there was a title." He eyed the flute in my hand. "I think that's enough spirits for you, Ms. La Verne."

"Phooey." I pouted but relented. He took it and deposited it at a nearby waiter in a quiet Italian command. It did feel like a stronger wine. Not enough to knock out my senses, but enough to make my body warm. "But there is a title. I title every con I take, makes the experience more fun."

He shifted his glasses, expression an unmask of disgust. "I see."

"Hardly, don't you wanna know the title for this one?"

"No."

I snorted. So resolute. "Let me tell you anyway." He sighed. Loudly. "When Kristoff first told me of his plans, I immediately knew the title. Beauty and the Beast. The enigmatic beast well known in the world of business, more monster than human, who a lot of people could only dream of approaching. And then the beauty— they don't know where she came from, dripping in gold that she glitters underneath everyone's gaze. Her looks beckon you, her charm obvious and thrilling. Yet, she stays in the beast's arms like a captive. . . No, a lover. Her gaze to him says everything. His response to her says more. But no one dares approach, as the beast is still a beast. And he guards his treasure like a dragon in a tower.

So what they're left is conjecture. Gossip. Fill in the gasps with murmurs and whispers. Is she an heiress of some sort? Maybe a whore from the slums, plucked out from the dirt and cleaned enough that she can imitate a diamond? Maybe she's just arm candy— but the gazes are unmistakable. Maybe he's actually in love, this beast. Does she love him back? Or is she just a gold digger? She looks too pretty to be in love with him, but so does he. Maybe they are. Maybe they're a German fairytale without the tragedy."

Translations.

Italian,

" Un angelo " an angel.

" Io lo farò " I will do it.

" il mio diamante " my diamond.

+

Chapter cut in half as it reached 4k before my very eyes. Because my internet has been utterly shitty, I couldn't post nor finish the picspams of the new characters that will be 'properly' introduced this new act, so hopefully anticipate that when it arrives. Can't wait for you to meet all the new players.