Flash marriage with the billionaire enemy

Enid’s POV

I am dressed in red. The one I found at the back of my closet after years of letting it sit in there untouched. Adrien hates it, because the slit is too high and the color calls too much attention.

And it didn’t matter that red looks great on me. I wanted to please him. I was such a fool.

The doorman holds the door open, and I stride in, the dim lights of the diner reaching out to me immediately. I scan the space, then stop, realizing I have no idea who I am looking for in the first place.

“Miss, you can’t stand here,” the doorman returns to me, his eyes apologetic and his tone polite. I watch his gaze stray to the slit, and I hear Adrien’s voice in my head. “The dress makes you look like a whore.”

Maybe he is right. But I guess the girl he ended up fucking and cheating on me with was dressed in a potato sack.

"Did you make a reservation?" the doorman asks, pulling his gaze back to my face. "Or are you waiting for someone?"

“My date,” I say simply, reaching for my phone. The last thing I want to admit to is the fact that it is a blind date and that my parents think I am not capable of finding myself the perfect man.

If there is even anything like that.

The doorman scratches his eyebrows. "Name?"

"A minute, please."

This is when I see him, sitting at the table nearest to the door, his eyes glued to the window, as if waiting for someone. It has to be him. He fits the exact standard my parents will want for me: tousled dark hair, cleans up nice enough to be in a tuxedo, and seemingly powerful.

This should go well.

“Found him.”

I don’t return my gaze to the doorman as I saunter towards the table, landing my purse on it without an introduction. He looks away from the window when I plop into the seat in front of him.

I was wrong about his eyes. They aren’t black. They are brown. And right now, they look at me like I just dropped out of thin air.

I don’t know how to react when he drinks me in slowly, when those brown slits regard me from my intricately curled hair down to the hem of the dress. I watch him slow down at the slit, perfectly seated on my thighs.

It is hard to appear indifferent, but I try to, clearing my throat noisily and bringing one foot over the other. Grudgingly, he terminates his perusal.

A small part of me is curious to ask if I made the list.

"Why is the table empty?"  I mutter, looking around, then bring my gaze back to him. "If you are going to impress me for the sake of my parents, you might as well try harder than putting on a tux."

The ghost of a smile flickers to his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His hands, devoid of rings, clasp in the middle of his table.

When he arches a brow, it messes up the curls framing his forehead. One of them slides close to his lashes and for a split second, a very split second, I feel the urge to push it away, to know if it feels as soft as it looks.

I shake my head, and his smile becomes a tad more visible.

“What is so funny?”

He doesn’t reply. Instead, he waves the host over. “I’ll be getting my usual,” he murmurs, barely moving his lips.

My eyes dim at his tone. He sounds just the way I imagine Killian sounds in Rina Kent's God of Wrath. Alluring with a tinge of compelling danger. Maybe I should head back home and tell my parents that this was a big fail, like all the others.

But when he looks back at me, his long lashes sweeping through my features, I swallow and stay put.

“And get her what I’m having too,” he says. “Skip the red wine for her. I don’t want her any more feisty.”

“Red wine for me,” I cut in, daring him to counter. Just when I think he is going to let it go, the smirk reaches his eyes. He regards the host one more time. “No red wine. And kindly tell everyone to hurry up with their dinner and vacate the space. I want a more private dinner with my date.”

The host nods and saunters away, barely paying me any regard.

“So you own the diner and think the right way to impress me is by flaunting it in my face.”

He shakes his head and reaches for the glass of water on the table, taking his goddamn time bringing the rim to his lips. He regards me from the glass. I think I see anger flash in his eyes, but it is gone in a second.

“I don’t need to flaunt anything to you, Enid. You are already impressed.”

I scoff, shaking my head disbelievingly. "Are you one of those who think the world of every woman revolves around them?"

“No,” he says. “I can just see through you. You have probably had a hell of a week. And I won’t advise you to complicate it any further by getting drunk.”

And then, he relaxes into the high-backed leather seat. “But if you want to, by all means be my guest. I am certain your parents will be excited to see their inebriated daughter staggering through their gates. What lovely sight that will bring.”

I decide I hate him instantly, and that does not change as the host returns, pushing a cart with her. She arranges the plates delicately on the table, while he watches me, the way a predator watches its prey.

And for some reason, I can’t look away either.

The shrill of my phone disrupts the silence, and I give him one last glance before fishing for it in my purse.

Adrien, my ex-boyfriend.

I end the call, but in those few seconds, something has changed. I see it in his eyes as they dart to somewhere behind me. I try to turn around, too, but he shakes his head.

Once.

It is all I need to stay rooted to the spot.

“Get up,” he orders, and for the first time, an instruction does not make me want to puke.

“What?”

“We need to leave.”