Holland March

The ballroom is an intoxicating blur of expensive perfume, cigarette smoke, and dangerous secrets that seem to float in the air like a thick fog. You are right in the middle of this opulent atmosphere, feeling the silk brush against your skin, hyper-aware of every inch of fabric that barely covers you. Acting as bait at an exclusive party is a tactic you’ve used before, but it has never felt this degrading. Wearing this ridiculous baby doll—delicate, almost non-existent—is your tool to gain access to places where your male counterparts cannot go, and having to smile and flirt with lecherous old men, men with inflated egos and wandering hands, is supposed to be the hardest part of the night. It is supposed to be just work. One more infiltration mission. But none of this feels like work when your eyes refuse to look away from the other side of the room.

The real nightmare is not the cheap alcohol they force you to drink, nor the men with tobacco breath trying to touch your back. The real nightmare is seeing Holland March on the other side of the dance floor, working the same case you are. He is there, leaning against a marble pillar with that slouchy posture you both hate and, secretly, find so fascinating. A few feet away, Jackson Healy moves through the crowd with his usual brutal efficiency, keeping a low profile while trying to gather intelligence, but March... well, March is doing the exact opposite. He’s drunk, of course; his tie is slightly crooked and his shirt has a wine stain he probably didn't even notice. He looks unkempt, almost pathetic, and yet, he is being dangerously flirtatious with someone else. He is trapped in a conversation with a stunning woman, one of those guests who seems to have been born under a brighter light than the rest of the world, and Holland is giving her all the attention you crave so badly, while Healy watches from the shadows, likely wishing he could strangle him for wasting time.

Right now, you are dancing with a girl—part of your cover—just to stay close enough to overhear a conversation between some guys at a nearby table, but your mind is light-years away from the industrial secrets you should be stealing. Your eyes are locked on him. You try to force yourself to be professional, try to tell yourself that he is working, that he is obtaining information—even if Healy would surely drag him by the ears if he could—but your arguments crumble when you see where March’s eyes are wandering. They are fixed, with a blatant lack of subtlety, on the woman’s cleavage.

"Holland March, you’re no better than an old pervert," you hiss to yourself, clenching your teeth and feeling your nails dig into the palm of your hand. The rhythm of the music seems to become a mockery in your ears. It is frustrating. You are wearing the same revealing outfit as this woman, you are just as exposed, just as close, and yet, to him, you are invisible. What does she have that you don’t? Is it the way she laughs? Is it the fact that she doesn't know how pathetic and destructive he can be when he wants to? You wait, almost desperately, for him to glance in your direction at some point. To search for you in the crowd. To look at you with at least a fraction of that intensity he is giving her. But nothing. He doesn't even notice you are a few feet away, dealing with your own environment.

While he lets out a loud laugh at something she says, and Healy, in the background, rolls his eyes in a gesture of pure despair, you let out a frustrated sigh. The pang of Hopelessly Devoted To You grows in your chest, heavy and painful. You should be focused on the damn mission, on the guys at the table, on your emergency exit, on not blowing your cover. But how are you supposed to keep a cool head when the man who occupies every corner of your heart is standing there, acting like you don't exist, while your other partner is trying to save the case despite March's incompetence?

You feel like an idiot. A brilliant spy, capable of disarming a man with a single word, but completely incapable of disarming the effect March has on you. You know he is confused, that he is a mess, and that is what hurts the most: that despite knowing all his flaws, despite having seen his worst moments, you are still here, wanting him to look at you, wanting to be the one who holds his attention. It is a vicious cycle of devotion and contempt.

The music changes to something slower, more intimate. The woman Holland is talking to puts a hand on his arm, a possessive gesture. Your jaw tightens to the point of pain. You decide you have had enough of this silent torture. You are about to let go of your dance partner and walk toward him, to confront him, to demand he stop playing the seducer when he has someone nearby who knows him better than anyone. But before you can take a single step, he leans in, whispering something into the woman’s ear, and she laughs, throwing her head back. Rage, jealousy, and deep sadness collide inside you. Will you approach to interrupt them, to create a scene that would put the entire operation at risk and ruin Healy’s work? Or will you simply keep drinking your glass, hoping that he, by sheer instinct, will turn around and finally realize who is actually by his side?