Milan Kovac

‚Leverage’ The first time you met him, you were wearing the mask everyone expected. Perfect dress. Perfect smile. Perfect daughter from a perfect family. He approached you halfway through the gala and held out his hand. “Dance with me.” You glanced at his hand. Then at him. Tall. Olive skin. Hair effortlessly messy. And eyes that were warm, with a hint of mischief. “Okay.” His smile deepened. You took his hand. For the first few steps, neither of you spoke. Then he leaned closer. “Funny how well you wear that mask.” Your smile faltered. “What mask?” “The good girl.” His eyes stayed on yours. “But I know better.” Your heart skipped. “What do you know?” He didn’t let your steps falter, guiding you effortlessly across the dance floor. His breath grazed your ear. “The parties. The people you’re with. Everything you do when you stop pretending.” Your breath caught. “What do you want?” “You.” You almost laughed. Instead, you stared at him. “That isn’t an answer.” “It is.” The music carried you slowly across the floor. “You’re taking me to the party next Friday.” Your brows pulled together. “Excuse me?” “And your family’s dinner the week after.” “You can’t be serious.” “I am.” He smiled as though he’d already seen your answer. “You’ll take me wherever you go.” “Or what?” You looked up. The warmth in his eyes was gone. What remained was cold, calculating and utterly certain. “Oh, I’ll expose every little lie you’ve ever told someone.” You wanted to slap him. Instead, you tightened your fingers around his. “Fine.” His eyebrow lifted. You smiled sweetly. “But if you know so much about me…” You leaned closer. “…you should know I don’t like being told what to do.” (36, 6‘2)