Xander leaned against the doorframe of the study, arms crossed as he silently watched Erin scribble something into her notebook. The faint scratches of her pen against paper mingled with the low ticking of the clock on the far wall. Her brows were furrowed in deep thought, her lips slightly parted in concentration. She didn't notice him. Not yet.
He took a quiet step forward, eyes narrowing as he caught a slanted glimpse of the page. His gaze flicked across a single, hastily written line: What would Xander do if he knew who I really am?
The sentence carved its way through his thoughts like a blade. His chest tightened.
She shut the notebook quickly and turned, startled. "Oh—hey," she said with a small, too-casual smile.
He didn't comment. Just nodded and gave her the space to leave, watching her closely the entire time. The moment she was gone, he pulled out his phone and dialed.
Cassian picked up on the second ring. "Boss."
"I need you to dig into Erin Lane again."
A pause. "I already did that. You told me to check her background thoroughly when she got here. She's an orphan. Age eighteen. That's all."
Xander's jaw clenched. His voice was quieter now, darker. "Then check again. Harder. That identity is fake."
"What makes you so sure?"
Xander's tone snapped. "There's no school record. No legal guardian on file. No trace of her childhood. Just a name, an age, and a one-line tragedy. That's not a person. That's a paper ghost."
Cassian exhaled, clearly annoyed. "Then why don't you just ask her? Or threaten her. Or fire her. If she's suspicious, get rid of her. Easy."
Xander's eyes drifted to the place where Erin had just stood, the memory of her expression lingering. Vulnerable. Startled. Honest?
He hesitated. Then quietly said, "She's different."
There was a brief silence on the line.
"Different how?"
But Xander had already ended the call.
Cassian stared at the disconnected line, stunned. He knew his boss like the back of his hand—cold, unreadable, indifferent even in the most intense negotiations or personal attacks. But this wasn't that man. This was someone rattled.
And all over a maid.
Cassian leaned back in his chair, expression darkening with interest. "What the hell did you do to him, Erin Lane?"
Back in the mansion, Xander stood in the hallway outside the study, his fingers still curled around his phone. That sentence looped over and over in his mind. What would Xander do if he knew who I really am?
It wasn't just a passing thought scribbled in a moment of self-pity. No—it was written with intent. And fear. She was hiding something. Something big.
But still, he hadn't confronted her.
Why?
He told himself it was strategy. If she felt cornered, she might vanish. Or lie. Or worse, play deeper into his weaknesses.
But even as he tried to rationalize, he remembered her face when he walked in. The slight tremble in her fingers. The flush on her cheeks. She wasn't expecting him. She wasn't putting on a performance.
He exhaled deeply and rubbed the back of his neck. He didn't like this. Not the suspicion. Not the need. Not the feeling that he was being pulled into something without even realizing it.
But most of all, he didn't like that he was starting to care.
And that…
That was dangerous.
Dinner was unusually quiet.
The clinking of silverware against porcelain was the only sound that filled the sprawling dining room. Overhead, a chandelier bathed the space in soft golden light, casting intricate shadows on the walls and flickering faintly on the polished mahogany table between them.
Erin glanced up from her plate, her fork halfway to her mouth.
Xander was stiff.
Not physically, not in the way a sore back or pulled muscle might make someone sit uncomfortably. No—his stiffness was the kind that came from inside, taut and alert, like a string pulled too tightly. His grip on the steak knife was too firm, his shoulders too rigid, and his jaw—usually lazy and smug—was clenched, just slightly, but noticeably enough for Erin to pick up on it.
He was trying to act normal, and failing miserably.
His usual air of unaffected arrogance was dulled tonight, replaced with something less polished. Tension seeped from every pore, even though his words were polite, his movements graceful, his expressions composed.
She set her fork down gently, tilting her head slightly as she studied him from across the table. Her voice was soft, the kind of soft that came with genuine concern, even if she didn't want it to sound that way.
"Are you okay?" she asked, her brows drawing together, the faintest wrinkle forming between them.
Xander looked up quickly, as if startled. For a second, he met her gaze and then just as quickly looked down again at the half-sliced filet on his plate.
"Yeah," he replied, too fast, too clipped. "Everything's fine."
A pause. His knife resumed cutting, but the slices were uneven now.
Erin blinked, watching him for a beat longer. He didn't look fine. He looked like someone whose thoughts were louder than his surroundings.
And the silence stretching between them was unbearable. Not because it was awkward—well, maybe a little—but because it was tense. Stiff. So unlike the usual banter-filled meals they shared, where sarcasm and eye rolls served as the seasoning to every bite.
She hated how brittle the air felt.
So she leaned back in her chair, brushed her hair behind her ear, and said casually, "Tell me more about the gala."
It worked. Xander glanced up, blinking once as if anchoring himself to the present. The tension in his jaw didn't vanish, but it eased enough for his lips to move more naturally.
He took a sip from his wine glass before answering. "It's being hosted by the Empire of vareign this year."
Erin's fork hovered midair.
She blinked.
"The Empire of Varein?" she repeated, trying hard to keep her voice even, light, and appropriately curious—but not too knowledgeable.
Xander nodded.
"They're the hosts this decade. Last gala was under our empire's flag, ten years ago. It rotates every ten years, but Varein's never hosted before—this is their first time. A bit overdue, but they're… apparently overdue for a lot of things."
There was something in the way he said that—dry, bordering on sarcastic. And skeptical.
Erin gave a small hum, her fingers curling slightly around her napkin. "They're… big, aren't they?" she asked tentatively, allowing her voice to carry a subtle note of curiosity, as if she only had a vague impression and wasn't, in fact, reeling internally.
"Big is an understatement," Xander muttered, running a hand through his hair, finally leaning back in his chair. "They're practically untouchable. No one knows anything about them. Not really. Not their members. Not their businesses. Not even their political alliances. But somehow, they've become the biggest empire in the world."
He sounded exasperated.
Erin's chest felt tight.
Of course she knew of Varein. In fact, every witch with any level of education had heard the same whispered rumors—the Empire of Varein was impenetrable, secretive, and terrifyingly well-connected. Some said they trafficked in dark magic, others claimed they were a hybrid council working underground to control both human and supernatural politics. But facts? No one had those. Not even the covens.
It was exactly the kind of mystery that made her stomach coil with suspicion.
But she couldn't say any of that. She was a maid, after all.
So she simply nodded, feigning a thoughtful expression, like the topic was intriguing but ultimately foreign. "That does sound mysterious."
Xander's eyes flicked to her, studying her with unreadable eyes. He was likely thinking the same thing—that this level of secrecy shouldn't be possible. But he said nothing, probably assuming, as she had hoped, that this was all above her level of awareness.
She reached for her wine glass, sipping to buy herself time to compose her thoughts.
Xander spoke again, more casually this time. "The theme for the gala's main event is a traditional ballroom sequence. Specifically, tango."
That word—tango—struck a nerve.
Erin froze mid-sip. She lowered her glass slowly, her eyes flicking up to meet his. Her expression had shifted so slightly that no one else might have noticed. But Xander, of course, did.
He tilted his head, one brow rising as a teasing edge crept into his voice.
"What?" he asked, smirking faintly. "Don't tell me you can't do the tango."
She didn't answer right away.
Because it was true.
She could waltz. She could manage a foxtrot. But tango? That dance with all its sharp, fiery precision and intimate timing? Absolutely not.
Erin gave a nonchalant shrug, trying to wave off the tension in her shoulders. "It's… not really my style."
Xander narrowed his eyes with mock suspicion. "Wait… are you saying you don't know how?"
Erin gave a sheepish smile and looked away, fiddling with the edge of her napkin. "I've tried. It didn't… go well."
A short silence followed. Then—
"You're kidding," Xander said, mouth falling open slightly in surprise. "You can waltz like you were born in a royal ballroom and yet you can't tango?"
"I never said I was consistent," she muttered.
He chuckled, clearly enjoying this far too much. "Well, then. I'll teach you."
Erin's head snapped up. "Absolutely not."
"You don't even know what I was going to say," he protested, grinning.
"Yes, I do. You were going to say you'll teach me to tango and then make it sound like I should be honored."
"That's because you should be. I'm an excellent teacher."
She snorted. "Please. I doubt you can even teach someone how to boil an egg, let alone a tango."
He put a hand to his chest in mock offense. "Excuse me. I'm deeply wounded."
She leaned in with a teasing smirk. "Good."
His eyes gleamed. "Fine. How about a deal?"
"No."
"You haven't even heard it yet."
"I don't have to. If it involves you teaching me tango, I'm not interested."
"But what if I succeed?"
"You won't."
"Then let's bet on it." He was grinning now, that slow, dangerous grin that usually meant she'd regret entertaining this. "If I can teach you the tango in two hours—just two—you have to grant me one wish."
Erin raised an eyebrow. "A wish? What am I, a genie?"
"Something like that."
She considered it. He looked so confident, so sure of himself. And really, what were the odds?
"You'll never manage it," she said with a smirk. "I've tried for weeks. And you think you can fix that in two hours?"
"I know I can."
"And if you can't?"
"Then you get to pick a wish," he offered.
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "Fine. But nothing illegal. And nothing that involves… I don't know, licking your boots or calling you 'master' or any nonsense like that."
Xander laughed, head tipping back. "Tempting, but no. I promise. Nothing illegal or degrading. Just one harmless wish."
"Deal."
They shook on it.
The moment her fingers brushed against his palm, Erin had the oddest sensation—like something was about to shift. And shift fast.
Xander's smile didn't falter. But something sharp flickered in his eyes, something mischievous and unreadable.
She should've known then that she was walking straight into a trap of his making.