ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 8: ʜᴀɴɢᴏᴠᴇʀꜱ, ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙᴜʀɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ʟɪꜰᴇ ᴄʜᴏɪᴄᴇꜱ

The cool night air hit Deja like a slap to the face as Ren's driver opened the car door. She practically fell into the backseat, her head spinning from all the champagne.

"Whooooo!" she exclaimed, spreading her arms wide. "That was a night and a half! Did you see their faces when I told that joke about the CEO and the janitor?"

Ren slid in beside her, his expression still unreadable. "You certainly made an impression."

"That was the plan, baby!" Deja said, then hiccupped. "Oops, 'scuse me."

The car pulled away from the curb, the motion making Deja's head swim. She leaned back against the plush leather seat, closing her eyes.

"You know," she slurred, her filter completely gone, "your secretary is stealing information from you."

The temperature in the car seemed to drop ten degrees.

"What did you say?" Ren asked, his voice deadly quiet.

"Mmmhmm," Deja nodded emphatically, eyes still closed. "That skinny dude with the glasses. Selling your product designs to NextGen Systems. Been doing it for months. You should fire his behind yesterday."

Ren was silent for a long moment. "How do you know this?"

Deja's eyes fluttered open, and she turned to look at him, suddenly realizing what she'd revealed. Oops. That was probably in the book. Wasn't supposed to know that yet.

"I..." she searched for a plausible explanation, but her drunk brain came up empty. "I just know things sometimes."

Ren leaned closer, his dark eyes intense. "Deja, are you okay?"

Deja giggled, reaching out to cup his face with both hands. His skin was warm under her palms, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass. "Now I know why Deja was so obsessed with you," she murmured, staring into his eyes. "You FINE. Fine like art museum fine. Got a girl questioning all her life choices."

Confusion flashed across Ren's perfect features. "What do you mean 'Deja was obsessed'? You're speaking as if—"

But Deja never heard the end of his question. The combination of champagne, exhaustion, and the warmth of the car hit her all at once, and she collapsed against him, head landing on his shoulder as unconsciousness claimed her.

The last thing she saw before darkness took over was the glowing percentage above Ren's head: 28%. It went up? was her final coherent thought. That wasn't supposed to happen...

In the dimness of the luxury car, with Deja passed out against him, Ren's expression shifted from confusion to calculation. "Who are you really?" he murmured, stroking her hair gently. The percentage above her head remained stable at 28%. It was as if she had been hiding behind a wall of ice, and now he had found a chink in it.

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The next morning, Deja woke up with her head throbbing like a bass drum at a block party. She groaned, pressing her palms against her temples.

"Lawd..." she groaned, rolling over like somebody's tired aunty at 7AM church service. Her bonnet was hanging on for dear life, edges fighting for survival.

Then it hit her.

WAIT.

She sat straight up so fast her hair clips damn near shot across the room.

"Did that man break off the engagement?! Please, Father God, let me be free!"

Her heart raced with hope as she flung the silk sheets off and practically flew downstairs in her pyjamas, her hair wrapped in a satin bonnet. In the living room, her parents sat sipping tea like it was just another boring Tuesday.

Her mother immediately rose, crossing the room with surprising eagerness to take Deja's hand. "Good morning dear," she said, smile forced and eyes darting to Deja's headgear. "According to Trevor, you did splendidly at dinner," she said, happily oblivious to Deja's current state of mind.

Deja blinked. "Huh?"

"The execs were quite impressed," her father added from his armchair, not even looking up from his newspaper.

"So... he didn't break off the engagement?" Deja's voice cracked with the last bit of hope she had left.

Her mother looked at her like she'd lost her mind. "Why would he do such a thing? Deja, don't say that."

INTERNAL CHAOS ACTIVATED. Girl, I wore LEOPARD BOOTS with a GOLD MINI DRESS. I flirted with the damn waiter like he was giving out free crab legs. I was GIVING Real Housewives of Somebody's Ghetto Energy. HOW am I still engaged?!

Her parents blinked at her like SHE was the crazy one. "Are you feeling alright, dear?" her father asked.

Her mother brightened. "I made hangover soup for you."

Deja squinted at her, suspicion crawling across her face. Ain't this the same woman who threw hot soup on Deja when she refused to eat it when she was younger?

Her mother's face fell immediately, percentage dropping as she bowed her head in shame. "Deja," her father coughed awkwardly, "your mother spent time making this soup. You should at least eat it."

"If she doesn't want to eat it, it's fine," her mother said quickly, wringing her hands. "Deja dear, you don't have to eat it."

Deja YANKED her arm away like Uh-uh! Too much love! Too much healing energy!

"I don't WANT it," she snapped, spinning around. YUP. THERE IT IS. GO AHEAD. CUSS ME OUT. DO IT.

"DEJA!" her dad boomed.

YEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS! she thought, grinning like a villain about to monologue.

"I HATE THIS UGLY HOUSE!" she yelled, "AND THIS NASTY-ASS SOUP! AND THIS WACK ENGAGEMENT!" She stomped her foot for dramatic effect.

To her horror, her mother rushed to her father and swatted his arm. "Don't shout at her!" Then she hurried over to Deja, looking distraught. "Mom is sorry, please don't be angry."

Deja's jaw dropped. "Wait, what?" She looked around the room, expecting her mother to be playing a twisted game. But no, her father's expression was stern, yet concerned.

Her mother started petting her shoulder all soft and gentle. "You have a board meeting with the Harrington's about the merger," she said. "You don't want to go looking like that, do you?"

I—HUH???

"You'll go with Trevor and your father," her mother continued, her voice a soothing lullaby. "They need your charm, your... unique perspective."

Deja trudged upstairs confused. What in the uno reverse card is happening?

────•⋅⊰༻♥༺⊱⋅•────

Twenty minutes later, Deja descended the stairs in a tailored pantsuit, her afro tamed into a sleek bun. She'd traded her bonnet for a diamond studded headband that looked like it could cut glass. She was ready for battle—or at least ready to pretend she knew what the hell was going on.

Her mother clutched her chest. "You look stunning, sweetheart."

I BEG YOUR PARDON???

She looked up and saw her mother's percentage had climbed from 28% to 35%. "WHAT?!" she screamed in genuine horror.

Her parents jumped at her outburst. "Deja, what's wrong?" her mother asked, her smile slipping slightly.

Deja's mind was racing. YOU DON'T HATE ME, THAT'S WHAT'S WRONG! THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE! I'M SUPPOSED TO BE THE VILLAIN!

Her mother misread the whole thing and took it as Deja being emotional. She wrapped her arms around Deja. "Mom's sorry for how we treated you before. We're going to do better. We promise."

Deja blinked in utter defeat. "Noooo..." she whispered, totally drained.

In the car on the way to Moreau Company, Deja slumped in the backseat, mentally calculating how to be more villainous. Up front, her brother Trevor drove while her father sat in the passenger seat, the two of them exchanging glances in the rearview mirror.

"So, uh, Dej," Trevor began awkwardly, "that was some outfit you wore last night."

"Uh-huh," Deja grunted, staring out the window.

"The leopard boots were...a choice," he continued.

Deja perked up. "You hated them, right? Please say you hated them."

Trevor and her father exchanged a long look, and Deja's eyes were practically glowing with anticipation.

"Actually," her father said, real careful, "Mr. Yiu called me this morning to say he found your... fashion sense... refreshingly authentic."

"WHAT?!" Deja screamed, nearly choking on her own disbelief. "I looked like a Vegas showgirl crashed a board meeting!"

"Deja, language," her father said, trying to remain calm as his affection percentage barely ticked up.

"I was loud! I was obnoxious! I put my feet on the table!" she shrieked.

Trevor turned around in his seat, looking both terrified and confused. "Yeah, about that... Mr. Zuo texted me this morning. He wants to have dinner tonight. Just the two of you."

Deja's face fell in horror. "OH F*CK NO," she exclaimed.

"Language," her father admonished again, his affection percentage taking a slight dip.

"This is some bull—" Deja cut herself off mid-sentence. "Some... bullying. Y'all are bullying me."

"How are we bullying you by saying your fiancé wants to have dinner?" Trevor asked, totally lost.

"Because I don't want him to like me!" Deja blurted out, then froze. DID I REALLY JUST SAY THAT OUT LOUD?

The car slammed to a halt, and Deja flew forward. "What did you just say?" her father demanded, fully facing her now.

Deja scrambled for a cover-up. "I mean... I don't want him to like me... if it's not real," she lied, trying to smooth it over. "I want it to be real love, not just some business thing, y'know?"

Her father and Trevor exchanged a knowing look. "That... actually sounds very mature, Deja," her father said his affection percentage creeping up again.

"No! Stop that!" Deja snapped, pointing at the invisible percentage above her dad's head like it was some invisible force haunting her. "Stop with the... the... percentage rising nonsense!"

"Stop what?" Trevor asked, looking where she was pointing and seeing nothing.

Deja slumped back into her seat, utterly defeated. "Nothing. Just... drive. I gotta figure out how to be more hateable."

"What was that?" her father asked, confused.

"I said I need to figure out how to be more... dateable," Deja lied, staring out the window, the weight of her villainous plans slowly disintegrating.