Alexia POV
Of course, life couldn’t let walk in like I owned the place without throwing a little more chaos into the mix. I should’ve known those receptionists wouldn’t let go scot-free.
I’d barely made it halfway through the overly polished, chandelier-infested restaurant when I caught the sound of heavy footsteps behind . Great. Security.
I didn’t even need to look back to confirm it. The whole place had that silent hush—you know the one, where everyone stops to watch what’s about to go down.
"Ma’am!"
Ma’am? Seriously? I’m not fifty.
Rolling my eyes, I picked up my pace, pretending I hadn’t heard. I an, maybe if I got to the table quickly enough, Almond Milk Guy—aka Aiden—would magically make this problem disappear. If he was the one who’d dragged to this overly posh place, the least he could do was get out of trouble.
I spotted him easily. Because, well, it’s hard to miss a guy like Aiden in a crowd. I spotted him almost imdiately—sitting at a table by the window, calm as ever, as though he owned the damn place. He probably did. The sleek, tailored suit. The perfect posture. He looked like a villain straight out of a romance drama. I could practically hear so intense background music playing as he sipped from his glass, eyes fixed on sothing outside. He was sitting at a table tucked into a corner with a full, uninterrupted view of the room—like so kind of mafia kingpin scoping out his territory. He had one hand wrapped around a crystal glass of water, the other resting lazily on the table as though he hadn’t a care in the world.
And, of course, he looked perfect. In his suit—probably worth more than my entire life—and his hair all neatly in place, he oozed this smug kind of confidence that made want to roll my eyes and yell at him all at once.
As soon as our eyes t, I had a brief mont of panic. His stare could freeze the sun. It was that cold, sharp kind of look that made you want to check if you were still breathing.
Was he mad?
I glanced down at my hoodie and sweatpants and thought, Yeah, probably. I an, I wouldn’t be thrilled if my so-called "fiancée" rolled into a high-end restaurant dressed like she’d just raided a laundromat either.
But then...
Then he did sothing with his eyes.
That’s the only way I can describe it. A thing.
His death stare didn’t land on for long. Instead, his gaze shifted past , over my shoulder, locking onto sothing—or soone—behind .
I blinked. Wait, what was he—
The footsteps stopped.
Slowly, I turned around, and yep—just as I suspected—there they were: two security guards who looked like they could bench-press a car. They were headed straight for , but now? They’d frozen mid-step, their stern expressions slowly crumbling into unease as their eyes darted toward Aiden.
I didn’t know what Aiden had done—whether he gave them a glare, a nod, or just telepathically told them to back off—but whatever it was, it worked.
The guards exchanged an awkward look, like they weren’t quite sure if they should retreat or tackle on the spot. Finally, after a long pause, they turned around and marched back the way they ca, their boots echoing against the floor.
Victory.
I couldn’t help it—I smirked. It was the sa feeling I used to get back when I was a VIP in society. You know, the kind of person who just had to show up for everyone else to bend over backward. This ti, though? It wasn’t they feared. It was him.
And that worked just fine for .
"Mr. Almond Milk," I muttered under my breath as I approached the table.
His head turned at the sound of my footsteps. The mont his gaze landed on , I swear I saw it—just a flash of disbelief, maybe even amusent. His lips twitched, fighting off what I assud was either a smirk or a laugh.
"Well," he said slowly, putting his glass down with a soft clink, "I see you... interpreted the dress code in your own way."
I dropped into the chair across from him, leaning back with a grin. "What can I say? I aim to impress."
His lips twitched again, this ti curving into the smallest of smiles, but his eyes—sharp and calculating—watched like I was an interesting puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out yet. "Clearly."
"Glad to see you’re making friends," he said, his voice smooth and calm.
"Yeah, well, not everyone’s as charming as ," I replied, brushing imaginary dust off my hoodie as I pulled out the chair across from him.
He raised an eyebrow, letting his gaze travel pointedly over my outfit. "This is what you call dressing decently?"
"Hey, you’re lucky I even showed up." I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms and matching his stare. "Besides, you’re the one who said dress decently. You didn’t specify whose standards we were going by. I happen to think this hoodie is a classic."
He didn’t say anything for a mont, but his lips curled into sothing that might have been a smirk. Or maybe I was imagining it.
"You haven’t changed a bit," he muttered under his breath.
I froze.
"What did you just say?" I asked, narrowing my eyes at him.
He tilted his head, playing innocent. "Nothing. Just that... you’re as impossible as I expected."
I didn’t buy it for a second.
Because for a brief mont there, I could’ve sworn he knew. Like he rembered sothing I wasn’t ready to confront. The tone, the words, the look—it was too familiar.
But instead of pressing him about it, I leaned forward and grinned.
"Well, lucky for you."
His gaze darkened slightly, like I’d hit a nerve. But then he shook his head, muttering sothing I didn’t quite catch, and took a sip of his water.
This was going to be interesting.
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