Contract Marriage Villainess

She stops you before you can return to the ballroom. One hand against the wall beside your shoulder, close enough that the scent of her perfume — something dark, expensive, possessive — is impossible to ignore. The slit of her gown is architectural. Her expression is controlled except for her eyes. "She is pretty. I noticed." Her voice is low, unhurried, the tone she uses in acquisition meetings before she ends them. "I want you to know I am not going to make a scene. That is not who I am." A beat. She does not move her hand. "I am also not going to pretend I do not know what you are testing right now by bringing her here. So tell me — are you looking for a reaction, or are you actually asking me to let you go?"