Alexia pov:
The waiter appeared out of nowhere, hovering at the edge of our table. "Good afternoon, sir, ma’am. Would you care to order?"
I glanced at the nu he handed and imdiately regretted it.
Who the hell pays this much for a salad?!
"What would you recomnd?" I asked, keeping my cool while clutching the nu as though it might explode.
The waiter blinked. "Perhaps the duck confit or the wagyu steak—"
"Water," I interrupted quickly. "Just water for now."
"Sparkling or still?"
I shot him a look. "Sparkling."
The waiter hesitated, then nodded politely before turning to Mr. Almond Milk. "And for you, sir?"
He didn’t even look at the nu. "The usual."
Of course, he has a ’usual.’
Once the waiter disappeared, I looked at him, narrowing my eyes. "So, what’s this about? You don’t strike as the kind of guy who takes random strangers to lunch."
"You’re not just anyone," he said simply, leaning back in his chair. "You’re my fiancée."
I rolled my eyes so hard I was surprised they didn’t fall out. "Oh, please. That’s rich—coming from a guy who proposed to in the middle of a street like a lunatic."
His expression didn’t waver. "You agreed, didn’t you?"
"Yeah, about that..." I fiddled with the napkin in front of . "I’m starting to think this is a really bad idea."
He tilted his head, studying like I was a particularly stubborn math problem. "Then why are you here?"
His question caught off guard, and for a mont, I didn’t have an answer. Why was I here? It wasn’t because of the money, no matter how tempting it was to dream about leaving behind my ratty apartnt and stupid budgeting. No, a part of was here because of him.
Because I had questions—questions only he might have the answers to.
Instead of answering, I crossed my arms and scowled. "Because you told to be here. Don’t act like I ca skipping in because I wanted to."
He looked at for a long mont before he finally leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. "I need sothing from you, Alexia. And you need sothing from ."
"Oh, this is going to be good," I muttered. "Let guess—you need a fake wife to keep up appearances or fend off so evil in-laws?"
His lips curled into a humorless smile. "Sothing like that."
I scoffed. "You know this sounds insane, right? Marriage? To soone you barely know?"
"I know enough about you," he replied, and his tone was so calm that it sent a shiver down my spine.
I stared at him. "And what’s that supposed to an?"
"That you’re stubborn. You don’t like being told what to do. You’re broke, but you’re too proud to admit you need help. You’ve been backed into a corner, and this is your way out."
I opened my mouth to argue, but damn it, he wasn’t wrong. Still, I didn’t like the way he said it.
"Well, congrats, Sherlock," I snapped. "You’ve figured out. Gold star for you."
He ignored my sarcasm. "Here’s the deal: Marry , and I’ll make sure you never have to struggle again."
I narrowed my eyes, my voice dropping to a whisper. "And what do you get out of it?"
His expression didn’t change. "That’s for to know. For now, all you need to decide is whether or not you’re in."
I leaned back, my mind racing. He was hiding sothing, that much was clear. But at the sa ti... this wasn’t just about anymore. He was part of my past life. He had answers—answers I needed.
And for now, that was enough to keep in the ga.
"Fine," I said finally. "I’ll marry you."
His gaze didn’t waver. "Good choice."
Yeah, let’s see how long I’ll call it a ’good choice.’
"So, as for the marriage, it’s going to be legal," he said, leaning back in his chair like he was negotiating a business deal and not discussing our impending life sentence.
"Alright," I muttered cautiously, waiting for the catch.
"You are not to interfere with my affairs. And nobody—nobody—gets to tell you what to do apart from , especially my family mbers. You’re not allowed to befriend any of them. Got that?"
I blinked. Wait... what?
"So, let get this straight," I said, leaning forward slightly. "I have full permission to be bitchy to everyone?" My tone was skeptical—I an, we were talking about his family mbers after all. Moms, dads, siblings—the works. This had to be a joke.
"Yeah..." Aiden shrugged casually, his expression as serious as ever. "You just be you. After all, that’s why I’m marrying you."
I froze.
Is anyone else seeing how strange this is?
I can be rude to his mom, his dad, and his siblings, and this guy is just... okay with it? No protests? No "please respect my dear mother" nonsense? Instead, I get a free pass to unleash all my pent-up attitude?
Oh, this is the biggest red light if I’ve ever seen one.
And you know what?
I definitely like it.
What? Don’t judge . I hate being told what to do. I hate pleasing people. And, most importantly, I’m not about to start fake-smiling just because soone is technically my in-law. Nope, not . So yeah, it looks like Mr. Almond Milk Guy just secured himself a wife.
The man has no idea what he’s getting into.
Grinning wickedly, I sat up straighter, squared my shoulders, and turned to find the waiter lurking nearby. He’d been hovering ever since I sat down, probably wondering why soone in a hoodie and sweatpants was allowed in this restaurant at all.
Well, watch and learn, buddy.
"Excuse ," I called, signaling him over with the perfect amount of princess-level entitlent.
The waiter raised an eyebrow as he walked over, clearly expecting to order the cheapest thing on the nu. His face scread: She can’t afford a salad.
Boy, was he about to be surprised.
"I’ll have the filet mignon, dium-rare," I announced with confidence. "With the truffle risotto. And pair that with a bottle of Château Margaux 2005."
There was a pause.
The waiter’s eyebrows shot up so high, I thought they might disappear into his hairline. He blinked at , then looked to Aiden for confirmation, probably assuming I had no idea what I was saying.
Aiden, for his part, didn’t flinch. He simply leaned back in his chair, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
"She’s ordering. Bring it."
The waiter’s jaw almost hit the floor, but he recovered quickly, muttering a hurried, "Right away, ma’am," before scuttling off to place the order.
I sat back triumphantly.
Aiden tilted his head, watching with what I could only describe as... curiosity. Like he was analyzing , trying to figure out if I was being serious or if this was so kind of performance.
"You know your food," he remarked finally.
I flashed him a smug smile. "What can I say? I’m a woman of culture."
He didn’t need to know that this wasn’t exactly my first high-class al. I may be living off five bucks and questionable tap water now, but once upon a ti, exquisite dining had been my everyday reality. Forks, knives, spoons—don’t even get started on how to butter bread properly. Table etiquette was practically drilled into in my princess days.
So yeah, to anyone watching now—especially that waiter—I was about to disappoint the hell out of them. I wasn’t going to wolf down my food like they assud I would. Oh no.
When the food was finally delivered (and boy, was it a scene—the waiter made it look like he was presenting an offering to a queen), I picked up the cutlery like a pro. My movents were graceful, polished—like I’d been doing this for years. Because, well, I had.
I could practically feel the waiter staring, stunned that a hoodie-clad "peasant" like could handle an expensive al like a socialite.
Yeah, take notes.
The pièce de résistance? I looked up at the waiter and added, "Oh, and Swamp Dragon 2nd Edition Private Reserve, please."
He blinked. "...Swamp Dragon 2nd Edition Private Reserve?"
"Yes."
He hesitated like he wanted to argue but ultimately left without a word, probably too afraid to question my very deliberate request. I caught Aiden smothering a chuckle, though he said nothing.
What? At the ti, I was still in a bit of a bad mood. Rich jerk or not, spending his money ant nothing to if the food was going to cost half of soone’s yearly salary. I wasn’t about to pretend to be grateful.
But hey—if I was about to get married, I might as well enjoy my single life while it lasted, right?
So there I sat, eating my expensive al like I owned the entire damn restaurant, the rich fool across from watching every bite with that sa unreadable expression.
Whoever said getting engaged wasn’t fun clearly hadn’t t .
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