Filthy Little Games

Ch. 11: The Pawn

QUINTON

Sophie reclines in one of the plush armchairs in her suite, her designer sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose as the December sun seeps through the blinds. She's always feigned innocence and nonchalance, a curated role she's cast herself in. This week, she's playing the instigator. I stand before her, seething, my fists clench at my sides as I struggle to maintain my composure.

"You know how I feel about Cavanaugh," I hiss, my voice strained. "You had no right to invite him. I specifically told you to keep this holiday quiet."

"Quinny, darling, I truly don't understand what the big deal is. Damon's a family friend." Sophie tilts her head, her perfectly painted lips curving into an infuriatingly serene smile. "Perhaps this has more to do with Emery than you?"

Sophie's act is masterful, but over the years, I've learned enough to recognize the manipulative undercurrents in her words.

"And so what if it does?" I growl. "You still should've listened to me. You had no right to bring him here."

She shrugs. "I'm just being a concerned sister, Quin. After all, you never really tell me anything. I have to look out for you somehow."

"I am a grown man," I say, my voice low and intense. "I don't need you look out for me."

She leans forward, placing her mimosa glass delicately on the side table. "The last time I stayed out of your business, Q, you got your fucking heart broken. I refuse to see that happen again." She adjusts her sunglasses. "What better way to gauge a woman's intentions than to put both contenders in the same room."

My jaw tenses. "It's not a competition—"

"Friend." The word rolls off her tongue like poison. "That's what she calls you. A friend." Her brow perks up beneath the rims of her glasses. "We both know you don't see her as just a friend. I'm not blind, Q. But you? You might be."

"You have no idea what you're talking about," I retort, my frustration bubbling to the surface.

Sophie's gaze narrows, her facade slipping for a moment, revealing a flicker of genuine concern. "Don't be delusional, Quinton. Not again. I may have overstepped, but I did it for you."

I remain silent, aggravated. And it's perhaps because I know she's correct. I know there's a smidgen of truth in her words. I saw it in Emery's eyes last night. They burned with something toxic, something I don't ignite within her.

Sophie sighs, relenting slightly. "New Year's Eve is only seven days away, Quinton. This week will fly by. Observe and learn. Use this time to your advantage." At the sound of tires on crushed snow, her head snaps to the window, gaze flicking down to the driveway. "Oh... Well, this is interesting." I follow her sightline, brows knitted together as Damon exits the SUV... with a woman. "Maybe I was wrong," she mutters. "Maybe there's nothing to worry about after all." Sophie stands up, polishing off her mimosa. "Shall we go greet our new guests?"

Bastard.

He's always known how to start a cold war.

***

I descend the grand staircase into the foyer, Sophie waltzing behind me. As we reach the bottom of the stairs, my eyes land on Cavanaugh standing in the entryway with a woman on his arm. My jaw tenses involuntarily. The poor girl, an unwitting pawn for the week, is a striking brunette with long legs and pouty lips. A perfect choice. He knows exactly who she looks like.

"Sophie, you look as enchanting as ever," Damon says sweetly before turning toward me, smirking as he introduces his guest with an easy charm. "This is Maya. Maya these are our hosts for the week, Quinton and Sophie Marquis." Maya gives us both a shy smile. Damon slings his arm around her shoulder, leans into her ear, and whispers something in Spanish. Maya's cheeks flush and she giggles. "Maya's from Spain. She doesn't speak much English."