Author's Note

Man I'm gonna be real, every time I write the words "author's note" I get flashbacks to My Immortal but also the era when we'd have conversations with the characters in the ANs...

Anyways, usual apology; things have happened and gotten in the way of my ability and desire to write... but no longer! I'm actually planning on wrapping this up fairly soon; I'm hoping to be able to complete this within the next two or three chapters. Hope you can hold on tight and keep supporting me until then!

It's simple enough: have a nice dinner, get drunk (or, at least, look very drunk), approach the broody paranoid-looking rich boy, get him to follow you...

And then it gets a little vague.

"You're still worrying about it," Jane comments, sipping at the same glass of wine he had twenty minutes ago.

"Whatever gave it away, darling?" The smile almost hurts your face. It's a struggle to keep your voice just this side of sickly-sweet. Jane gives you a toothy grin that nearly makes you shiver. The resemblance to a starving fox isn't lost on you.

"Just use your womanly wiles. You'll be fine, you're not at all hard on the eyes."

He takes a careful sip of his wine while you nearly spit out the mouthful of salad you're trying to choke down. You can feel the burn spread from your face to your chest. You hate it.

"Don't do that," you mutter, washing everything down by finishing whatever wine was left. You wave down your waiter; you're far too sober for any of this. You ask for a cocktail; you don't care what it is as long as it's sweet and strong. The waiter gives you a look but walks off to a small bar somewhere off to your left.

"Do what?," Jane asks, and you hate the innocence in his tone. Everything about you says what.

"Fli-flirt with me," you whisper, stabbing the remains of your salad with more vigor than necessary. You keep your eyes down. "It's embarrassing."

"Ah, but you don't dislike it." The victory is his voice makes you want to scream. You look up at him incredulously. There's a retort, but it dies on your tongue when the waiter drops a crystal blue highball glass in front of you.

He rattles off its name and contents but you don't care. Chug half of it in one go and finish your salad. You can feel the alcohol singing in your veins like fire. You raise your hand to down the rest of it, but... stop.

Sharpen your fear into a knife. That means you need fear to sharpen. Though arguably you are slightly inebriated, you are still a good, healthy measure of terrified. You're in a restaurant too nice for your bank account. You're sitting with a man you hardly know pretending to be his newly wed wife despite the fact that his actual wife is Very Dead. You're expected to approach the handsome and paranoid son of a Russian mob boss like you have no idea who he is.

And you got shot at for knowing a dog a few days ago. Terrified probably doesn't actually cut it.

The more you think about it, the more paralyzed you feel yourself become. Jane places a hand over your glass and forces you to lower your arm. The look he gives you is confusing.

"All you need to do," Jane begins quietly. He never breaks eye contact. Somehow that unnerves and challenges you to do the same. "Is bring him to an empty table and talk to him. See the most you can in him."

You notice that he noticeably doesn't remove him hand from yours in a noticeable way. You start to think maybe you drank too fast.

"...I can do that," you say slowly, losing track of the words as they exit your mouth. Your resolve doesn't solidify so much as it coagulates. You look back to the paranoid brooding man by the window. Look back to Jane.

This'll be fine. You're technically single. You're playing house with a handsome not-detective. And you're closer to drunk than you've been in a while.

It's fine.

There's an extra sway to your hips as you make your way to the Window Man. His family eyes you cautiously but otherwise say or do nothing. You'd sigh if you had the presence of mind to. As it is, you feel nervous and flushed and a little bit breathless. You look over your shoulder to Jane, whose face displays everything from "look at my beautiful wife" to "look at all these sheep thinking there isn't a wolf in their midst". You swallow the bubbling giggles rising in your throat.

You stop a few feet away from Mr Brooding and lean forward to the side a little. Thank your stars you chose to wear the dress that shows at least a little cleavage. You don't touch him, and firmly hold your hands behind your back.

"Excuse me..?," you ask tentatively, and almost jump out of your skin when your target does. He whips around to glare daggers at you. Until he isn't, and his eyes follow your dress' straps down your neckline. Could use more class, but it's all whatever at this point.

"Wha—," The man starts, but his voice sounds choked. Clears his throat and starts again. "What do you want?"

Can't help but notice that most of the tension has left his shoulders. Was it really as easy as playing the part of the drunk bimbo?

"Sorry, gosh, I didn't mean to scare you!" Place a hand low on your chest for emphasis and lean back on your heels. Ignore the slowly growing soreness in your feet. "My name's Magda Wi—ah, Stephens!" Pretend to forget that your maiden name is gone. Seems to work; Brooding Man doesn't seem to catch it.

The fake names roll off your tongue better with the alcohol. At least you hope; sounding believable while drunk is hard. How were you expected to ace this, again?

Brooding Man still eyes you suspiciously. You look over your shoulder and wiggle your fingers at Jane. He wiggles his fingers back at you. He makes a good show of looking far more inebriated than you know he is.

Turn back to the man in front of you with a dumb, apologetic grin on your face.

"Truth is, we just got married right? But I've always been kind of wild, you know, and he lets me get really crazy, bless than idiot, but—I'm sorry, geez, I'm rambling. Do you mind if we sit down? The wine's getting to my head a bit but I really hope you can hear me out. Please?"

Clasping your hands right under your chest seems to work a charm; Brooding Man can't help but look back down before looking back up at your face. Your very flushed face. It's a miracle the people of Singapore can't hear how hard your heart is beating.

"Sure," Brooding Man answer's smoothly. His entire demeanor changes. He offers you his arm to guide you to one of the few empty tables. The wait staff give you a look. The Family give you a look. Jane looks on wordlessly but with the starved attention of a predator.

"My name's James Madore."

James—Jim, Jimmy, Jamie—takes to you like a fly to honey. He hangs after your every word like they're gold as soon as you mention you and your "husband" are looking for a +1 to your first honeymoon night. You rattle off the name of a hotel Jane had given you, and James seems pleasantly satisfied. Must be high-end, then. Not like you'd know.

You talk about yourself like the most self-absorbed, vapid girl on the planet. Your work in PR, you're, like, so good with social media. You've worked with the Kardashians and Kanye and even Madonna for a little bit. You like the modest ring your husband have you because the chunky garbage is so overrated. You like indie music like it's your lifeblood.

You make yourself sound like the worst hipster you've ever heard. And for whatever reason, it's actually working. James is absolutely enthralled—both by whatever incoherent mess falls out of your mouth and by your cleavage.

You place a chilled hand over his on the table. He doesn't flinch or pull away. He leans in closer. You'd almost be attracted to him if he wasn't so, just. So arrogant.

"But geez, Jamie! You're letting me do all the talking here!" Laugh like you're pretending to be self conscious. You're still not sober enough to know if you're doing a good job of it. "What about you! What do you do? Is that your family over there? They look nice!"

They don't look nice. When you wave at them, the older woman—presumably James' mother—looks three seconds away from murdering you just for thinking about touching her son. Tough.

James tenses. Oh, that's new.

Tilt your head to the side to feign ignorance rather than sudden intrigue.

"They're alright," James starts slowly, looking quickly over his shoulder before turning back to you. "Family business is rough though. My dad's been trying to groom me to take over for years and my mom's already decided who I'm supposed to marry. Can you believe that shit?"

A gasp. "Oh no! You're kidding me! Seriously? Arranged marriages in this day and age?"

"Christ, right? It's like they live in the 1700s!" James throws his head back in what looks like pure, unadulterated relief. You almost wish you could say you understand. When he bring his head back down, he looks... dismayed. You'd even say hopeless.

"Oh no," you start, look around and lean in. Lower your voice. "You got your eyes on another girl?"

James looks stunned for a second, and then slowly shakes his head. You're about to ask what, then, when it clicks.

Oh. Oh no. There's a clear picture forming in your foggy mind and you're not sure you like it. Force yourself you grin like a Cheshire Cat through your empathy and lean back in your chair.

"Well, if you don't mind it, I'm sure you and my husband would get along just fine."

James actually looks like he's considering it for a minute. Looks back at his family—barely a fraction of a second—and then snatches his hand away from yours like it's made of burning embers. Hide the confusion under a layer of what you hope is carefully crafted concern. You open your mouth to ask what's wrong, or offer reassurances, but silence yourself when you see James' hands. His fingers are nearly white from how hard he's gripping he table.

"Look, no offence, I'm sure you're some decent folk, but I'm not interested," he says sharply. You can't help yourself from grabbing at his sleeve as he gets up. Do your best to shake the wine from your head long enough to think before you speak.

"Please. I honestly started out just wanting to pick you up for a threesome—" James' face turns about five shades of crimson. "—but you seem like a good kid. I just—I want to help you. Even if it's just giving you a night to relax, no strings attached. Just one night of fun where you can forget who you are."

James' face is impassive for a little bit, but you think you can see him considering the offer. Considering you, at the very least; his eyes are fixed on your face. It's a little unnerving, honestly. The more you watch him, though, the more he seems like he's faltering. And somehow, though your mission wasn't *really* to woo him or even reel him in, you find yourself determined to do something.

You catch yourself fidgeting with the pendant around your neck when the young man's eyes drift down to it. He has the decency to snap his gaze right back up to your face. Your hand wraps around the teardrop pendant—clear and blue—and move to take it off.

"How about this," you start carefully. "I'm kind of a fortune teller on the side sometimes. How about you ask some questions and I try and get some answers for you?"

Jane's grip on your hand is almost bruising as he pulls you along behind him. You don't really have the time to say anything. You don't really breathe, either. Your hand comes up to your bare neck. You kind of wish you hadn't dropped your pendant in Jane's haste to get you out. You kind of liked it.

"Quick, come on, get in," Jane orders calmly, but his tone betrays the set of his eyes. You swallow thickly. You don't even have time to buckle up before Jane tears out of the parking lot. Confusion, mild panic and inebriation make it impossible to actually tell and remember which direction he's heading towards.

"Okay," you breathe, finally snapping your seat belt in place. You let your head fall back and stare blankly at the car's roof. "Can you tell me exactly what just happened? Because I think I'm still too drunk to actually process."

Jane makes an ugly sound that's probably somewhere between choking and laughing. Great. Fantastic. This is absolutely not how you'd planned your evening and night to go.

"The Madore family's been linked to some pretty shady stuff for the past few years," he starts explaining. You vaguely notice that this is the first time he refuses to tear his eyes off the road while driving. You don't comment on it.
"James isn't so keen on following in his brothers' and father's footsteps. He's been trying to distance himself from the family business for a while now."

"Yeah, okay, makes sense that his family would seem like god damn flies in a soup then." Jane chuckles and continues.

"Exactly. They're trying everything to make sure James keeps the family business going, but he keeps sneaking right past them every other time. Like when he was spotted with a 'guy friend' at a bar last week."

You snort. "It's a dude in his twenties going to a bar with a friend, wha—," I cut myself off when I turn to look at Jane. While he's got half of a smirk plastered on his face, he looks... almost sad? Apologetic? "Oh. Oh no. That kind of guy friend. The kind of guy friend who makes a man turn down a drunk girl propositioning him."

Jane laughs out loud and throws his head back. My mind goes blank for a second; the column of his neck when he laughs is... I shake my head and shudder. I'm not sure I'm liking how my mind is right now.

"Right, exactly. James hasn't been able to get a single minute to himself since that photographer caught them. Those pictures haven't been made public either, so you can guess what happened to the one who saw them." You make a face; yes, you can guess, and you would much rather not. "It's James' boyfriend who send me an email a few days ago to try and find out why he hasn't heard from James since their last date."

You make a sour face. The boyfriend has no idea, then? Who James Madore is? Did James lie about who he is? Or did it just never come up in conversation?

"Wait." You grab Jane's right arm in sudden realization. You don't mean to stun him the way you do but the way it makes him look at you makes your mouth go dry. The words get stuck in your throat. He's quick to look back at the road ahead.

"Yes?"

"I—you had asked me to—I never got him? To come back with us?" You're starting to think that maybe you aren't as drunk as you think and maybe there's something else entirely wrong with you. Your hand is still wrapped around Jane's elbow. You try desperately not to notice how his arm feels deceptively muscular.

"Oh, don't worry about that, I got more than I needed just from looking at you."

Oh come on, there has to have been a better way to word that. You can feel heat scorching your cheeks and neck. That's just not fair. You take your hand back like the contact with him burned you.

It probably did.

"Okay, so, what now then?" There has to be something else to be done after this, right? It can't just end with a single night of pseudo-investigation and being chased out by an angry mob family because you tried to touch their son's face after having answering a particularly sensitive question, right?

Jane shrugs like doesn't care. "I have some ideas, but it's not something you need to bother yourself with."

You let out an indignant scoff; all of this so you don't need to bother yourself with the end result?

"Beg your pardon, but what the fuck?"

"Language," Jane gasps, putting a hand to his chest in mock offence. When he turns to look at you and notices that your face still clearly displays shock and anger, he makes quick work of backtracking.
"I'm sorry, what I meant to say is that I have a backdoor for James if he wants one. There's just a lot of questionable paperwork and people involved, so..."

"Plausible deniability, huh? How kind of you," you mutter, shifting in your seat to rest your head against the window and watch the road go by.

The rest of the drive goes by in silence.