Isla accepted the tray silently, setting it carefully on the small table between them. She kept her posture sharp, shoulders back, eyes scanning the edges of the room even as she unwrapped her food. Efficiency first, comfort second—like always.

“Thanks,” she said curtly, eyes flicking to him only for a moment. She didn’t comment on his meal; he had his routines, she had hers.

As she took a small bite, she allowed herself a fraction of distraction, noting the way he ate—methodical, precise, controlled. Something in that familiarity was oddly grounding, though she’d never admit it aloud.

“I’ll eat quickly,” she said, returning her attention to the tray. “We need to run through the Orlov behaviors soon. Time’s ticking.”

Her words were clipped, professional, but there was a faint undertone beneath them: readiness. She was already shifting her mind into rehearsal mode, letting the food sustain her just enough to stay sharp.

(I won't be on as often over the next few weeks becuase I have finals)

Isla stilled instinctively at the first touch—her spine going rigid before she forced herself to relax into the role. She reminded herself this was rehearsal, that the intimacy was strategic, calculated, necessary. Still, the slide of his fingers down her waist felt too familiar for someone she barely trusted, and the warmth of his breath on her neck sent an unwelcome shiver down her spine.

She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t lean into him either. She held her ground, controlled.

Her voice, when she replied, shifted into Aliana’s—smooth, breathy, sultry, lacquered with performative charm.

“Of course I do,” she purred, turning her head just enough that her cheek brushed his jaw in passing. “You should know by now I dress only to make you jealous.”

Even so, behind the performance, her gaze tracked every angle of the room, every camera, every possible vantage point—as if she couldn’t let her guard fully down, even for pretend.

Then, more quietly, slipping back into herself for only a second, she murmured just loud enough for him to hear:

“Touch stays light. Nothing you wouldn’t do in public.”

A reminder—not resistance, just boundaries.

She straightened, slipping seamlessly back into Aliana’s persona, looping a hand loosely around the back of his neck the way a woman would with a husband she owned.

“Now,” she breathed with a flirtatious smile that didn’t reach her eyes, “show me how he holds himself in a crowd.”

Isla followed his lead through the dance, letting their movements grow fluid and cohesive with surprising ease. She moved like Aliana—brazen, effortless, commanding the room with unapologetic sensuality—but beneath that veneer, she remained hyper-aware. Every brush of his hand was catalogued, every shift in proximity measured. He kept the contact appropriate, filtered, but still intimate enough to sell the role.

When he pulled away and settled on the couch, she exhaled quietly—a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Then she saw him pat his lap.

Her eyes flicked to his face, catching the unspoken apology there. The look softened the sharp retort that had risen to her tongue. She didn’t like this part. Sitting on a man’s lap—especially one she barely trusted—was personal in a way that even flirtation wasn’t. But Aliana wouldn’t hesitate. And if Isla was going to play her convincingly, she couldn’t either.

She approached slowly, methodically, but with the same sultry glide Aliana was known for. When she settled into his lap, she did so with controlled grace—light pressure, one leg draped elegantly over his, back straight rather than lounging.

Her voice stayed low, breath brushing his ear in a way that could be flirtation—or a warning.

“Don’t get used to this.”

Then, slipping effortlessly back into character, she rested a hand at the base of his throat, thumb grazing his jaw as if she owned him.

“Tell me,” she murmured in Aliana’s tone, “how does she speak to him in private?”

Isla felt his hand settle lightly on her knee—respectful, measured, clearly intentional. He was keeping to the boundaries they’d set, even within the performance. That helped. A little.

She didn’t relax, but the tension in her spine eased enough that she could slip fully back into Aliana’s skin.

Her gaze lifted to him, lashes lowering just enough to be suggestive, though beneath it her eyes stayed cool, calculating. His whispered admission—I don't like this as much as you do—earned the faintest huff from her, something between acknowledgment and skepticism.

“Good,” she murmured, voice a silken whisper meant only for him. “Because we’re doing this for the mission. Nothing more.”

But Aliana would never speak so plainly, so Isla let her expression shift—slowly, deliberately—into something coy. Her fingers trailed from his jaw to the collar of his shirt, playing with the fabric as she leaned in closer. Her breath tickled the shell of his ear.

A soft, careful giggle slipped free—practiced, not genuine.

Like she was testing the sound.

Like she was testing him.

Then, channeling Aliana entirely, she brushed her lips near but not on his ear, the way a woman trying to wind her husband up might do in public.

“Mm… so she whispers,” Isla purred, lowering her voice until it was barely audible. “Like this…?”

Her touch remained light, her body held slightly off his instead of melting into him—close enough to look real, distant enough to keep herself steady.

“And what,” she added with a soft, practiced blush that felt foreign on her face, “does she giggle about?”

Isla watched him carefully, even while pretending not to—Aliana would never look at her husband with scrutiny, but Isla always did. She could see it beneath the veneer of Nikolai: the layers, the walls, the hollowness he tried to keep tucked behind that polished playboy elegance.

But that wasn’t her business.

Not now. Not ever, if she could help it.

She let her lashes flutter in a way that would make Aliana proud, shifting closer on his lap—not fully settling into him, but enough that from a distance it would look convincing. Her fingers toyed with the hair at the nape of his neck, light enough to remain appropriate to the limits they'd agreed on.

A breathy, practiced laugh slipped out—soft, airy, almost musical, the way Isla remembered socialites sounding when they wanted the room to watch them without seeming like they did.

“Mm… ridiculous like this?” she murmured, brushing her nose against his cheek in a feather-light tease Aliana would use to hint at secrets meant for later. “Or perhaps”—another soft, flirtatious giggle—“she just finds you endlessly amusing”

Her voice dipped lower, becoming all Aliana—warm, indulgent, and far too enamored with her husband.

She whispered near his ear, “Show me how far she leans in… does she take his collar? Or his tie? Or…” her fingertips grazed a single button on his shirt, not undoing it, simply tapping where her hold would be in public, “…this?”

Even as she flirted on cue, her spine kept a hint of tension, her eyes—behind the giggles—never fully dropping their guard.