Linghe's eyes sparked. He pulled his hand back slightly, but his gaze remained locked on hers. He was hooked, drawn in by the very "chaos" she had pretended to find in his styling.
"That character was a fool," Linghe said, his voice dropping an octave. "He let her see his heart. I don't make the same mistake."
"Don't you?" Nyx stood up, her silk dress shimmering like liquid moonlight. She walked around the table, stopping just behind his chair. She didn't touch him, but she leaned down, her lips inches from his ear. The scent of her expensive, clinical perfume—notes of ozone and white tea—filled his senses.
"You've been staring at the 'clashing' anklet for the last twenty minutes, Linghe," she whispered. "You're so obsessed with the one thing that doesn't fit your perfect world that you've forgotten you're currently in mine."
She let her hand ghost over his shoulder, a touch so light he could barely be sure it happened. "Thirty hours left. Tell me, Mr. Actor... are you enjoying the scene I've written for you?"