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The plan worked.
I almost laughed out loud when I first saw the look on his face—a mix of confusion and anger.
He’s clearly an impatient man. I arrived late on purpose and dressed like this on purpose too.
I want to annoy him. I’m not here because I actually want to entertain this absurd betrothal or the impending marriage preparations. No, I’m here because I need to make a statement.
It’s infuriating that my parents took such a major decision on my behalf. They had no right. I’m not a child. I should be able to make decisions for my own life.
Last night, I discovered Clara at Liam's apartment, and that betrayal cemented my decision to come here today. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have bothered.
Two of my best friends betrayed me, and I’m here to take my revenge.
Mother was right—Liam isn’t good for me.
At first, I tried to justify his actions, but it’s obvious now that he wants my friend too. If he truly loved me, he wouldn’t have cheated on me with her. That’s unforgivable.
“I’m done here,” the man in front of me says abruptly, shoving his chair back.
“Hey,” I call out, stopping him just before he leaves.
I didn’t expect my so-called groom-to-be to be this attractive. But that doesn’t matter right now. We need to talk.
I deliberately dressed to make myself unappealing. I don’t want him to find me attractive.
He must’ve reserved the entire restaurant for us since it’s completely empty. The "CLOSED" sign is already hanging on the door, though it’s still early in the day.
I suppose this is the kind of power a billionaire wields. Mother emphasized that he was rich and famous, and I can see the benefits of that already. Maybe I can use his status to my advantage too.
“What are you doing here dressed like this?” he demands, his deep voice booming with anger, his piercing blue eyes glaring at me.
I almost shudder but hold my ground. If this is the man I have to face to get back at Liam and Brenda, then I need to be brave.
“Do you think I have time for your games and—”
“Why are we here, Mr. Man?” I cut him off sharply, my gaze unwavering. His broad shoulders rise, his scowl deepens, and he stares at me with a mix of disdain and intrigue.
Now, I feel ridiculous in this outfit. Maybe I should have dressed appropriately instead of this clownish getup.
“Can you sit down?” I ask, forcing politeness.
“Are you the woman I’m supposed to marry?” he asks, disbelief clear on his face, his arms crossed.
I nod slowly, a pang of regret settling in.
He sighs, shakes his head, and finally sits back down. For a moment, I think he’ll start the conversation since he arranged this meeting, but he stays silent, glaring at me.
“Why are we here, Mr. Man?” I repeat, still unable to recall his name.
He leans forward, drumming his fingers on the table. Then he speaks, his voice low and husky. “Why are you dressed like this?”
I almost look away in embarrassment. I hadn’t thought this through. Heartbreak makes people do irrational things—stupid things.
“I just felt like it,” I reply, masking my emotions as best as I can.
“You just felt like embarrassing me?” he shoots back. “What if the paparazzi snap a photo? Do you realize how damaging that could be? My reputation—”
“Is that all you care about?” I interrupt.
“Yes,” he replies firmly, his jaw tightening. “I care about my reputation. And if you cared, you wouldn’t have shown up looking like this.”
I swallow hard. He’s right, but I refuse to let him win.
“If this is going to work, you’ll need to care about how this reflects on me too.”
“Is that an order?” I snap.
Marriage should be a mutual agreement, but this isn’t a normal marriage. This is a transaction—something we’re both being forced into.
“What if it is?” he challenges, smirking.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” My temper flares, my voice rising despite my effort to stay calm.
He smirks wider, clearly amused.
“Do you think I’m here because I like you?” I point to myself angrily. Before I can launch into a full rant, a waitress appears out of nowhere, interrupting us.
“Good day. What would you like to order?” she asks with a bright smile.
I glare at her, wondering if she’s blind to the tension.
“Nothing,” I snap before Dante's can answer.
“We’re here to talk,” I explain, forcing a smile, though my irritation seeps through.
The waitress leaves, throwing Dante's a flirtatious smile.
Annoying.
“About our marriage…”
“This is…” we both say at the same time, but I cut him off.
“We should sign a contract,” I state boldly.
He looks at me, confused.
“A marriage contract,” I continue. “We get married, stay together for a few years, then divorce. That way, our parents are happy, and we can both move on with our lives.”
He stares at me, unblinking. Then he does the last thing I expect.
He laughs—a deep, rich sound that reverberates through the empty restaurant.
And for a moment, I’m unsure if he’s laughing at me, my ridiculous outfit, or the sheer absurdity of my proposal.
