High society never lacks for drama. And thanks to Raphael, I got to be at the center of it for once.

I swirled the wine in my glass, took the last sip like it was nothing, and walked away as if I were just another guest at someone else's show.

The hotel had rooms prepared for rest. I punched in the code and was about to slip inside when Tom followed me up, pressing his hand against the edge of the door to hold it open.

He stepped in.

I looked at him calmly. "What are you doing here?"

Before he could answer, the keypad beeped again.

I froze.

For a brief moment, my mind went blank. But Tom grabbed my wrist and pulled me behind the folding screen just in time.

The door opened.

Raphael stormed in with his mistress in tow.

"You could at least pick your moments. Have I been too soft on you?"

She looped her arms around his neck, her voice sweet and syrupy. "I just can't stand watching you with that woman."

She pouted, asking, "What does she have that I don't?"

"Nothing," he said, his hands now snug around her waist. "She's got nothing on you."

"How do you know?"

She giggled, teasing him as she guided his hand under her dress. "Have you slept with her?"

His hands were clearly busy. Her soft moan made it obvious.

Disgusted, I turned my head away.

Realizing Tom was still holding my hand, I tried to pull away.

He let go for a second—then grabbed it again.

I shot him a glare and yanked my hand back harder.

But he just grinned, entirely shameless, and ran his fingers over mine, like he owned them.

I was fuming, face burning, ready to curse out loud.

He leaned down, lips brushing against my ear. "You'll have plenty of chances to yell at me. Just don't get caught now."

Before I could shove him away, he turned his head deliberately, his lips grazing the side of my face.

He shut his eyes.

I nearly kicked him.

Unfortunately, I kicked the folding screen instead.

Behind it, the sounds of kissing—wet and obnoxious, like an old lady chewing on oranges—came to an abrupt stop.

Raphael approached.

He had his lover. I had mine. Fair play.

Fueled by pride, I reached around Tom's neck and lowered my voice to a firm, even tone.

"Kiss me."

His lips were cool and soft.

The screen was yanked aside.

I looked up—and locked eyes with Raphael.

He stared, shocked. Then, with a growl, he punched the screen to the ground. "Everything's blowing up outside, and here you are, making out carelessly!"

He roared again. "You've never been kissed before? Had to pick this moment?"

What was he? A double-standard idiot?

I gave a slow, sugary smile and replied in a singsong voice, "Oh? Weren't you also kissing your lover?"

His mistress lost it. She stormed up and yelled in my face. "Who do you think you're insulting? A woman like you has no shame! Raphael marrying you is the worst thing that's ever happened to him!"

I didn't bother sparing her a proper look.

I was the bride, and she came in a red dress trying to steal the show.

"You talking about virtue?" I sneered, glancing at her exposed lower half. "You were groping Raphael's—what was it again? Yeah, real virtuous."

She choked, speechless.

I turned to fix Raphael's wrinkled tie with a gentle smile. "Thanks, honey, for introducing me to my boyfriend. I like him a lot. His kisses are real sweet. But yours? Not even a dog would want them."

Raphael was furious, practically shaking.

But he'd brought shame to both families. And now, the Lindt family owed me—big time.

Losing a bit of face in exchange for cold, hard cash? I came out ahead.

After the wedding fiasco, Lindt Group's stocks dipped. His parents demanded damage control—he had to show up with me in public. We were to play the loving couple, put on a show.

Raphael might be reckless, but he knew how to weigh consequences. Even when he hung out with his usual pack of rich, idle friends, he brought me along.

The others followed suit, girlfriends in tow. We ended up around a poker table.

Four women, one table. Everything went smoothly.

But at some point, two of the men joined in.

Tom took the seat across from me. Raphael sat to my right.

The dynamic shifted the moment they sat down. I wasn't good at poker to begin with, and now, the pressure was heavier. The two men dominated the table.

It was my turn to deal. I checked my cards, praying for a decent hand.

Tom pushed two chips forward and drawled, "Raise."

My stomach tightened. Before I could fold, his fingers closed over mine. He plucked the card straight from my grip, still warm from my touch.

Then he laid down his hand with a smirk, his gaze locking onto me.

"Mrs. Lindt, you've got lucky fingers."

The way he said Mrs. Lindt sent a sharp twist through my ribs.

Hand after hand, Tom kept pulling the same stunt—calling a bluff just as I drew, snatching cards from me without hesitation.

Once or twice could've been a coincidence. But by the fifth time, it was too deliberate. The whole table knew something was up.

He was pushing every boundary he could.

I forced a smile and kicked him under the table.

Raphael, sensing the tension, tossed his cards down in disgust.

"Boring. Let's play something else."

The others complained the group was too small. They made a few calls and moved the party elsewhere.

With Raphael playing his role and Tom circling like a hawk, I couldn't relax.

When we got to the new place, Raphael's mistress showed up too.

It was the most ridiculous circus I'd seen in ages.

Someone gave a knowing glance and suggested a game: tissue relay.

I sat on Raphael's left. His mistress sat on his right. Tom sat beside me.

Raphael's mistress folded the tissue a few times and leaned close to Raphael.

He hesitated, then leaned forward and bit the edge of the tissue. Turning toward me, his expression was unreadable.

There was resistance in his eyes, but also a flicker of anticipation. If I took that paper, we'd practically kiss.

Disgusting.

The piece of tissue passed from his mouth would be barely the size of a thumbnail.

If Tom wanted to keep the game going, he'd practically have to kiss me.

How was I supposed to play that?

Then I noticed a phone camera pointed at me. Someone was trying to film me kissing both men—to spread it around, probably. Paint me as the wild wife gone rogue.

I didn't know who started it. But if I was already in the game, I wasn't going to back down.

I downed the drink in front of me and stood, slow and steady, ready to smash that phone to pieces.

But I tripped—one foot over the other—and stumbled back, landing right in Tom's lap.

He didn't miss a beat. He said playfully, "What, are we playing in my lap now? More exciting that way?"

Raphael's face twisted like he'd swallowed a fly.

He grabbed my arm and dragged me out.