12 — Officially, Legally, Contractually… Mrs. Reynolds?

Trevor’s hand rested lightly on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the road. I kept my hands folded in my lap, trying not to stare at him, trying not to notice how his presence filled the car.

“Did you enjoy dinner?” he asked, voice casual, almost teasing.

I swallowed, unsure if I should tell the truth. Did I enjoy it, or did I just survive without completely embarrassing myself? “It was… fine. Very fancy,” I said, my voice tighter than I meant it to be.

He glanced at me, the corner of his mouth lifting in that infuriating smirk. “Fancy is one word for it.”

Fancy? Overwhelming, intimidating, exhausting. Fancy barely covered it. I shifted in my seat, reminding myself not to let him see how much his family’s world made me feel small.

Trevor didn’t comment. He reached over and brushed a strand of hair from my face, gentle enough to make my stomach twist. I turned my face slightly away, cursing the effect he always had on me.

“Hailey left safely?” he asked after a beat, eyes flicking to mine.

“Yes. She insisted on driving herself home. I think she was relieved to escape the billionaire circus,” I said, letting a small laugh escape me.

He chuckled, and the sound made my chest tighten. “She seems… good for you.”

“She is,” I admitted, trying not to let my tone betray how grateful I was. “I don’t know if I’d have survived today without her.”

He nodded, jaw tense. One hand stayed on the wheel, the other resting near the shifter. “I’ll take care of you. That’s my job,” he said quietly. Job. Fiancée. Contract. Those words echoed in my head, and I felt a flicker of irritation.

The drive was mostly quiet after that. I stared out the window, trying to keep my thoughts from wandering, but I couldn’t stop noticing him. The way he handled the car, calm and in control; the way his voice softened when he asked about Hailey; the brief glances he gave me, checking I was okay. I was supposed to resist, remind myself this was business, but a pull inside me refused to listen.

Finally, we reached my building. Trevor parked without a sound, but didn’t turn off the engine immediately.

“You’re here,” he said simply. “Safe. That’s what matters.”

I nodded, fumbling with my seatbelt. Safe. From him, or from myself?

“I’ll walk you up,” he said, opening the door for me. His hand brushed mine ever so slightly. Fire. That’s what I felt every time he touched me. I stepped out quickly, trying to ignore the warmth it left behind.

“Thank you for the evening,” I said, keeping my voice steady.

He raised an eyebrow, smirk tugging at his lips. “The evening was only fine if you survived it. I did my best to keep you from drowning in my family’s world.”

Drowning. That’s exactly what it felt like. I glanced at the steps in front of me, pretending to check them.

“Do you often invite people for dinner?” I asked cautiously, desperate to distract myself from the fluttering in my chest.

He considered me briefly. “With family? Not often. But when it matters, I make exceptions.”

When it matters. That sounded personal, and I immediately shook my head, scolding myself. Stay in control. This is a contract. Nothing else.

“You did well tonight. Better than I expected,” he said quietly.

I blinked, surprised, then quickly masked it with a laugh. “Better than you expected? That’s… reassuring, I think.”

His eyes lingered for a moment. “I always expect the worst from people trying to impress my mother. You passed.”

Passed. Like a test. He makes everything a test, and somehow I was both terrified and relieved.

Then he looked at my building, gray eyes taking in the cramped, slightly run-down exterior. His lips curved just enough to show that familiar arrogance.

“You can’t still be living in this dump, can you?” he said, voice smooth, a slight bite behind it. “What if reporters got hold of it? You’re supposed to be a Reynolds wife.”

I stiffened, gripping my bag tighter. Right. Wake-up call. He is not gentle. He is not sentimental. He is not here to like me. He is exactly who he is.

“I’ll have my movers come by,” he said, amused. “They’ll pack whatever is actually worth anything here.”

I flinched slightly but kept my voice even. “I’ll manage.”

He gave me a brief glance, almost like assessment. “After all, this arrangement is give and take. You need money for your mother’s hospital bills. I need a wife. Everybody wins.”

Everybody wins. Right. I reminded myself this was a business arrangement. Contract. Nothing else. And yet, even with that voice, even with that presence, I couldn’t ignore the flicker of something I wasn’t supposed to feel.

He finally started the engine, the car humming beneath us, and I watched him drive off, leaving me standing in front of my studio apartment. The night air was cold, but the clarity it brought was sharper. He is who he is, and I have to keep my head.

I closed the door behind me and leaned against it, letting the reality settle. Arrogant, morally grey, calculating, not gentle. The only reason he was marrying me—officially, legally, contractually—was because of a slightly bashed car and a balance sheet he wanted to fill.

I chuckled dryly, shaking my head. Survival. Money for my mom. A wife for him. Everyone’s needs met. That’s the cold reality. That’s the truth.

And yet, I couldn’t ignore the pull, the subtle tension, the magnetic, infuriating draw he had. I hated it. I didn’t trust it. I was not supposed to want it.

But here I was, thinking about his smirk, his eyes, the way his hand had barely touched mine.

I sank onto the couch, my fingers brushing the edge of my bag, and tried to steady myself. Contract. Survival. Business. That’s all this is. Nothing else.

Still, I wondered how long I could keep telling myself that before the lines blurred completely. Oh, Alessia. You're done for.