Faking love with ceo

The crystal flute slid from Lina Carter's fingers, slick with condensation from the ice bucket. She did not have to be carrying the bottle of vintage champagne. That was reserved for the senior staff. But Marco had called in sick and the manager's gaze had fallen upon her. "Don't drop it", he had said.

The ballroom was a dreamland of light and whispered power. A thousand candles, reflected in mirrors, and gowns flowing past her, each costing more than a year's rent. She straightened her back, keeping a sharp eye on the sparkling path between the guests, counting her steps. Ten more laps with this tray. Then down to water. Then maybe her feet wouldn't feel like they were bleeding.

She saw him before he saw her.

Alexander Knight was at the center of a loose circle of old men with their backs to the grand piano. He was younger than them. They leaned in. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't waving. He was speaking. And the world bent right toward the sound of his voice. He was wearing a tuxedo that looked like it had been painted on him. Sculpture of midnight wool and white linen. His hair was dark. Swept back from a forehead that seemed to be permanently etched along the corner with an impatient line. Lina's tray shook. She held on tighter. She was walking close to the circle. She stared at a space of empty air beyond his shoulder. She was holding her breath. She was a ghost. That was the rule.

Three steps away a man in a tailcoat burst out laughing, loud booming laughter, throwing his head back. Three steps away he took a step, a step, his arm out to the side swinging.

The edge of his elbow struck Lina's tray with a soft horrid clink.

Time didn't slow. It burst.

The flutes weren't empty. Three of them were full. They were teetering on the edge of the polished silver with gold liquid sloshing over the rims.

She tried to yank the tray back, to steady it, but it was too late, her wrist was already turning, the weight shifting.

Silence. The fall sparkling with light.

The champagne shot into the light of the candles. The shower of water, a beautiful tragedy, caught Alexander Knight across the chest and shoulder as he was half turned talking, the cold expensive shock of it sent a full-body recoil that was more violent than a shout.

Silence.

The champagne ran down his chin. It made his white shirt see-through, clinging it to his skin. It stained the perfect wool of his jacket in ugly spreading blotches. A single lemon twist came to rest on his front and softly plopped on the polished parquet.

Lina stood with her hand still outstretched, holding the lopsided and now empty tray. Her heart was a bird that had gone mad and flown up her ribs. The cold from the ice bucket water ran up her sleeve.

He stared down at