CHAPTER EIGHT- Not yours to change

Louise’s Pov

We arrived at the restaurant

It was perched on the edge of the coastline, all glass walls and classy, the kind of place that whispers money. The parking attendant opened my door, but I didn’t step out right away. I waited, letting Tristan walk around and open the door himself. He did, of course, just like a gentleman, even when he was furious.

I stepped out without a word, smoothing my shirt. His eyes flicked over me again, still clearly annoyed I wasn’t wearing the dress, but now, in public, he said nothing. His expression was calm, too calm, the kind that tells you he's trying not to explode.

We walked inside together, our silence a third presence at the table. The hostess led us to a private corner, a booth with a view of the water. Everything was spotless, minimalistic, intentional, like him. Tristan pulled out my chair, and I sat, still not speaking.

“So,” he said after a long moment, picking up the menu, “tell me, Louise, do you make it a habit to ignore thoughtful gestures, or am I just lucky?”

I raised a brow, not even pretending to look at the menu.

“If you’re calling that dress thoughtful, then yes, you’re very lucky.”

He didn’t look up. “It was Dior.”

“It was a command, disguised in silk.” I responded

He finally looked at me, that unreadable gaze steady and sharp. “It was a suggestion, not a command.”

“Tristan,” I said, folding my hands on the table, “you don’t know me. You don’t get to suggest what I wear, especially not before we’ve even shared a full conversation.”

He exhaled, slow and calculated. “Fair enough. But you could’ve acknowledged the gesture without turning it into a power play.”

“It wasn’t a power play,” I said. “It was self-respect.”

He tilted his head slightly, considering me. “You’re proud.”

“I’m not ashamed.” I said staring back at him

For a moment, he said nothing, just stared, like he was trying to decode something beneath my words.

He was silent, but his eyes weren’t still. He watched me, not in the loud, obvious way some men do, but carefully, like he was trying to figure me out. His gaze moved over my face, paused at my hands, then back to my eyes. There was something curious in the way he looked at me, like he hadn’t expected to be interested but found himself pulled in anyway. He wasn’t just annoyed anymore, he was intrigued.

The waiter arrived, interrupting the silent battle.

Tristan ordered without asking me what I wanted.

I picked something simple, grilled prawns and a glass of sparkling water.

As soon as the waiter left, he leaned back slightly, arms crossed.

“You’re not like the women I usually go out with,” he said, not sounding pleased or displeased, just stating a fact.

“Good,” I replied. “Because I’m not a woman you go out with. I’m the woman you’re being told to marry.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Touché.”

We sat in silence for a while, the clink of glasses and muted conversations filling the space between us. Despite everything, I had to admit, he was striking.

I told myself I wasn’t going to look at him. That I didn’t care how sharp his jawline was or how his sleeves hugged his arms just right. But I did look, quick glances when he wasn’t watching. There was something about Tristan Pierre that pulled the eye, even if you had no interest in men. I had never been with one, never wanted to be. But something about him, the way he carried himself, the quiet power in his posture, the calm in his chaos, it made me curious. Not in the way he probably wanted. But in a way that made me watch him a little longer than I meant to.

He looked like every rich heir should look, composed, intimidating, maddeningly attractive. But it was the arrogance that stood out most, the unshakable confidence of someone who rarely heard the word no, which made me want to say it more often.

“You don’t want to marry me,” I said suddenly.

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Yeah. You want someone who follows instructions. Someone who wears what you pick out and smiles at all the right times.” I responded

“And you think you know what I want?” he asked, leaning forward now, that sharp smile making a slow return.

“I think you want convenience,” I said. “Not a wife. Not a partner. Just a box to check. I’ve been around men like you my whole life.”

He smirked, but his voice was quieter now.

“And what kind of men are those?”

“The kind who don’t really see the women they’re with. Just the version they can control.” I said

He didn’t respond immediately, just stared at me, that calm mask slipping slightly, revealing something more dangerous underneath.

“And you?” he asked. “What do you want, Louise?”

I blinked. That question, real and unexpected, hit harder than I thought it would.

“I want freedom,” I said finally.

“Then why are you here” he asked

“Because freedom isn’t part of the deal. Marriage is.” I said

He nodded once, slowly. “So we’re both being forced.”

“Don’t make it sound so romantic,” I muttered.

Our food arrived before he could respond. The waiter poured wine into Tristan’s glass and then offered me some. I shook my head.

Tristan watched me quietly for a few minutes while we ate, like he was assessing not just my words but my movements, my reactions. I didn’t like being studied. It felt like a trap.

“You loved her, didn’t you?” he asked suddenly.

My fork froze halfway to my mouth. I looked up, startled.

"Elsa," he said. "The woman. I read between the lines."

I didn’t answer immediately. My throat was tight, my hand unsteady.

"Yes," I said finally, quietly. "I did."

Tristan didn’t gloat, didn’t smile. He just nodded once, like he was piecing something together.

"Is that why you hate this?" he asked. "Me? This arrangement?"

"I don’t hate you," I said. "I hate not choosing."

His eyes met mine again, softer now. "I didn’t choose either."

We sat in silence again, but this time, it was different. Less hostile. A strange, reluctant understanding had settled between us, fragile but real.

When the check came, he didn’t ask if we were splitting it. Of course not. He paid with the same ease he did everything else. On the way out, he opened the door for me again, this time without looking so annoyed.

The car ride home was quiet, but it wasn’t cold. I watched the coastline disappear behind us as Tristan finally broke the silence.

"I didn’t send that dress because I wanted you to change," he said.

I turned to look at him.

"I sent it because I was curious to see if you would," he added.

My lips curled slightly. "Now you know."

He gave a faint smile.

"Now I know."

We reached my house, the car slowing to a smooth stop in front of the gate. He didn’t get out this time. Just stayed behind the wheel, his fingers lightly tapping the steering wheel.

"Goodnight, Louise," he said, voice low.

"Goodnight, Tristan."

I stepped out, feeling him still watching me as I walked back toward the house. And for the first time since this mess began, I wasn’t just dreading what came next. I was curious.