Chapter Text
"I am sad to notice Miss Danforth's absence."
I nod, offering an apologetic smile, making sure to keep showing all kinds of signs of respect for this apparently very important man that I do not really know, glancing at my almost empty champagne flute.
"Yes, unfortunately, Marlo had a family emergency. You have to understand."
The balding man in front of me was some vital and influential developer for a rising company, with whom Marlo has been close friends for years. But apparently not close enough for her to care and actually show up.
He nods, "Of course, of course. Family always comes first."
Something bitter tugs in my insides. Family first.
Forcing myself to continue smiling, I make up a few more pleasantries before excusing myself, mentally ticking off a list in my head of people I have to approach, quickly burying the unpleasant thoughts back down. Which is hard when I have a photogenic memory.
I usually can't forget, no matter how much I want to. But I still force myself to think about other things.
It is a bit unconventional that Marlo Danforth, the head of probably the most popular fashion magazine in the whole world, had such connections with important, but certainly not to the fashion industry, people. But as far as I know, her brother and the rest of their family have connections everywhere.
The name Danforth attached to your name can get you anywhere in America. Which is why, even though I do not care a single bit for fashion, for six years I've been working under Marlo.
I like to pretend that once I have enough years under my belt, I will leave. But the thing is, I don't particularly have anywhere to leave to. No plans for the future.
Tonight, I am attending some sort of charity fundraiser in Marlo's name. She said to pick some fashion item, grossly overraise and buy it.
Coming up to the bar, I ask for another champagne flute and turn to look around the hall as I wait.
I only allow myself champagne because that's the only alcohol that can fog my mind just enough to take the edge off. It doesn't push away the clouds, just delays the eventual rain that has been happening daily in my mind ever since I can remember.
My mind is more fucked up than the usual tonight. It's because Marlo has been acting bizarre for the last few weeks.
And I've come to the conclusion that it's either she's finally retiring or just firing me.
I look down at my loose satin black dress and some matching heels I helped myself to in the magazine wardrobe. We get tons of pieces that are usually for one-time use, or just straight-up PR that dusts, only to be opened and once glanced at.
My messy blond hair is down, since all of the earrings that I own don't seem to be appropriate for this event. I'm only thankful that I washed my hair yesterday, since I didn't even know I was attending this event until five hours ago.
A woman in a probably overpriced designer dress walks past me, barely glancing at me, yet her gaze contained nothing but judgment.
It could have been because of my makeup, which I did touch up in the office before leaving, but my messy (though I did try to clean it up as best as I could) mascara and black eyeshadow did not fit in completely with the fundraiser's aesthetic.
Or it could have been my stack of silver necklaces, but I did scale them down to only three.
It's not like the big boss doesn't approve of what I wear. Usually, the events are scheduled right after official work hours, so I just go to them straight out of the office.
Having changed there, I always make sure to drop by Marlo's office, just to see if I catch any hint of distaste for my chosen outfit.
Marlo never mentions me helping myself to the closet that is technically off limits, and not once has she disapproved of what I'd chosen to wear.
"Your champagne."
Muttering a quick thanks to the bartender, I take the glass and immediately take a large sip. I now only need to find one last person to mingle about, bid on something very expensive, and I'm out of here.
I go to take another mouthful of the alcohol when suddenly, something starts to burn me. Not literally, but someone's stare pierces so hard into me that I would almost swear to god or whoever is up there that it pierced my soul.
Slowly turning around, I try to catch their gaze. And abruptly, I do.
A pair of hazel eyes makes me falter in my step. The man wore an unreadable expression as he stared right at me in the middle of the fluent chaos around us.
He is at the other end of the bar, standing in an expensive suit that should make him blend in with all the other men in the room, but it doesn't.
He stands out to me.
I can't tell if it's the slight stubble, among the clean-shaven men, or it's the salt and pepper hair that is curly in a way you wouldn't notice the lighter strands unless you looked.
But I noticed. There is something about him that catches me off guard. I hold his gaze back, raising my brow.
And he doesn't look away.
Most people would have by now, would've offered a polite smile, or pretended they hadn't been staring, but he just watches. Almost like he has already decided something about me and is letting it unfold at its own pace.
There's a stillness to him that doesn't match the room. Laughter spills from nearby tables, glasses clink, voices rise and fall, but around him, it's as if the noise dulls, like he exists slightly out of sync with everything else.
He's also older. Ten years, if definitely not more.
And I feel it.
He carries himself as if nothing here impresses him, like he’s seen rooms like this a hundred times over and found them all lacking. There’s a confidence in that, something quiet and unshakable, the kind that doesn’t need to prove itself.
It should put me off. It should make me step back, remind me that he’s not part of my world, that there’s a gap between us I don’t understand.
Instead, it pulls me in.
His fingers rest loosely against the rim of his glass, but he doesn't drink. Doesn't move much at all, actually. The only thing alive about him is his gaze — sharp, deliberate, dragging over me in a way that feels far too knowing for a stranger.
Who are you? I'm asking before I can stop myself.
I see the way his lips curve into a smirk as he raises a glass of something golden to his lips. I watch him do it, almost breathless.
It's like he dares me, come and find out.
I feel as though I cannot look away, so I swallow. I practically feel him look down from my eyes to my lips as I do. The golden liquor doesn't touch his mouth, the glass is just pressed against his lips.
And it's almost as I can't control my body anymore because I feel myself lick my own lips, tasting the two glasses of champagne I had and a drugstore lipstick in the shade of ripe cranberries that surprisingly still colours my lips.
Or maybe I will come and find you myself, I hear his eyes promise.
I force myself to look away, my back to him. I press the half-empty, cold flute to my temple, suddenly wishing I hadn't drunk the bubbly alcohol.
What am I doing?
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I can't even handle champagne. Should stick to that god-awful coffee.
I want to leave, and I question what came over me. Maybe I should just go home.
But I hadn't bid anything in Marlo's name yet, I remind myself. And I want to see the man again, the other parts of me whisper.
Allowing myself to look back in his direction, I abandon the flute of champagne on the bar. Only to find the space where I saw him empty.
He has gone.
It's for the best. Probably.
A male voice speaks into the microphone, announcing that the charity bidding is to start in five minutes. A wave of relief washes over me.
I hope that at least one of the first few things is close enough to fashion so that I can bid on it and leave. Escape to my cold and shitty New York apartment, but escape nonetheless.
I turn to find a seat when I almost bump into someone. Almost being the keyword, since the moment I started to lose balance, two strong arms appeared at my sides. One gripped my forearm gently, while the other came to support my weight at my waist.
The touch was burning. I knew it was him before I even looked up.
His voice is low, husky and casual, like he hasn't just spent the last few minutes staring me down, "Careful there, sweetheart."
As I look up at him, I inhale his cologne. It's strong with wood and something else I can't name. The scent around him tells me that he had smoked a cigar a while ago.
"You," I only manage to breathe out.
Now he gives me an emotion. His lips form into a smirk, likely noticing the way I'm almost breathless.
"Me," he only says back.
I feel the weight of his touch spread out, like he is fully positioning his one hand on my silk dress, while the other grips my forearm even stronger.
His hands are rough and they are permanently tattooing themselves into my skin. And I can't find an ounce of me that doesn't find pleasure in it.
He doesn't let go.
Not immediately. Not even after I've steadied myself.
If anything, his grip adjusts, subtle and deliberate, his thumb brushing once against the inside of my wrist like he's testing something, like he's checking if I'll pull away.
I don't.
Then his gaze drops, not in a rush, but slowly, tracing the line of my face as if committing it to memory, as if he has all the time in the world to study me. Up close, his eyes are worse, warmer in color, colder in intent.
"There you are," he murmurs, almost to himself.
The room feels smaller with him this close. Or maybe it's just that he takes up too much space without trying, crowding my senses, my thoughts, until everything narrows down to the point where his hand meets my waist.
There's nothing accidental about the way he holds me.
Who are you? I want to ask.
Why are you making me feel like this? I need to ask.
Instead, I stare into his hazel eyes, and he stares back at me. Then his gaze drops to my lips again.
"What's your name?" his voice is different now. Less radical, more breathless.
I find my voice, "What if I don't tell you?"
His grip tightened significantly on my forearm. In any normal person's head, there would be alarms ringing right now.
I find a part of myself leaning into his touch.
"I'll find you anyway."
For some reason, I believe him. So, I tell him my name, "Mercy."
"What?" He's now completely breathless, while I find myself regaining some dignity.
"That's my name. Mercy."
The corners of his eyes crinkle. His reaction tells me that my name pleases him a lot.
I like that. I like that my name pleases him.
"Mercy," he repeats, slower this time, like he's tasting it, letting it settle on his tongue.
I glance at his curly hair, the dark and grey strands blending together.
Is it so terrible that I wish I could run my hand through them right now?
I have to remind myself that this man is a complete stranger to me. That I should not be feeling this way.
But then again, I am feeling something. And I don't remember if I ever had my whole system rewired like this.
His grip doesn't loosen. If anything, it shifts again, his fingers sliding just slightly higher along my arm, like he's anchoring me there now that he has something to call me by.
"That..." he exhales softly, a quiet huff of disbelief under his breath. "That doesn't suit you at all."
There's something almost amused in the way he says it, but it doesn't reach his eyes. Those stay fixed on me, intent. I like that.
I manage to breathe out, "Why not?"
"You don't look like anything merciful," his gaze drifts over my face as he says it, slow and deliberate.
He's picking me apart piece by piece. I wonder if he's finding something he likes in the ruins of it.
There's a faint tilt to his head, curiosity laced with something sharper, like he's testing a theory he already believes. The smirk from before doesn't fully return, but it lingers at the corner of his mouth, restrained, as if he's holding himself back from saying more than he should.
His thumb brushes again against my skin, absentminded in a way that feels anything but.
"Mercy," he repeats, quieter now, like the word means something different the second time around.
His eyes flicker, briefly, almost imperceptibly, to my lips, then back up, locking onto mine again with a steadiness that feels intentional.
"No," he adds under his breath, voice rougher now, like he's settled on the thought. "Not even a little."
His thumb drags once, absentmindedly, over my skin again. Not hesitant. Familiar. Like he's already crossed a line in his head and doesn't see a reason to step back.
It is weird that I don't care?
"You wanna know my name?" he mutters, but it's not a question. It's a request. He wants me to know his name.
So, I don't ask him. I just let myself indulge a bit.
Raising my palms, for a moment, I press them against his chest. Not pushing, just resting on top.
His hold on my forearm lets me. I feel his finger drift across my skin gently, before digging harder into me. It might leave bruises.
But I don't focus on that, because I might like that. Instead, I feel his warmth. His heart is beating like crazy.
Looking up to him, I watch as he swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing, his gaze completely piercing my soul. His grip tightens, "Aren't you going to ask me for my name, Mercy?"
The way he says my name is low and endearing, but he says it almost offhandedly, like he isn't creating a bruise-shaped fingerprint on my waist.
I can feel the sound of him saying my name shoot electricity down my spine. I want to hear it again. The way he pronounces the syllables, the way his hooded eyes look down at me as he mutters it, the way he makes me feel.
Those hazel eyes almost send me into a frenzy. Suddenly, I want to see every emotion slip into them. And I want all of those emotions to be because of me. Is that normal?
I think I want more. More of his glances, more of his voice, more of his touch, more of him.
I force myself to harden my palms and push just enough at his chest for me to escape his touch. Even though there is now some distance between us, his touch still scorches my skin.
Will I ask him for his name?
"I don't think that's a good idea," I mumble, more to myself, but he hears me.
I know because I see the way his brows knit. His stance changes, the way his gaze hardens in me, and he takes a step in my direction. I take one back, even if I want to take one closer to him instead. I don't dare to turn my back to him yet.
It's like he's some sort of predator, who's decited to make me his prey.
And I think I'm terrified of what he just made me feel. But he must have noticed.
Something changes in his stare and he begins walking over to me again, faster this time, reaching for me, but I quickly turn around.
"Mercy," I hear him call after me. His voice is stern, low. He isn't yelling, he's calm, commanding almost.
I misstep just for a moment, hesitate. I want to experience what he made me feel again just now. Saying my name the way he just said it.
But now the alarms begin to ring in my head, his touch not clouding my mind, so I try to blend in with the crowd of people going to the bidding seating. I don't look back. I'm afraid I will catch his gaze again.
A part of me realises that I don't think I will be able to push myself away from him if he were to touch me again, look at me the way he did.
I don't understand. What the fuck just happened?
I press a palm against my own chest and feel my own heart beating ridiculously fast. I choose to stand in the second row, while trying to calm my heartbeat.
I don't think I've felt anything more vivid in my life, since... I don't know if I have ever been this disoriented.
It feels like I can't breathe at all when I realise that the greying dullness that I accepted to be a permanent part of me was dissolved the moment my eyes met the stranger's.
For the first time in my life, I am truly terrified. Because he made me feel.