CHAPTER SEVEN- Not what he expected

Louise’s POV

The Day Before the Date

When the notification lit up my screen, I already knew what it was.

“Tristan Pierre liked your photos.”

Of course he did.

It wasn’t random. It wasn’t innocent. This was acknowledgment. A nod to the fact that I had accidentally liked one of his pictures a few days ago while scrolling too fast on Singram. One from months back, taken in Monaco, him looking like someone who had never known what it meant to be unsure of himself.

Another knock on my door pulled me back to reality.

“Yes?” I said.

“It’s Ms. Agatha,” came the familiar voice. “You have a delivery, Miss Louise.”

“Please bring it in” I said

Ms Agatha placed the black box on my bed and she left

I didn’t even need to open the box to know who it was from.

It was too deliberate. Too timed. Too Pierre.

Black wrapping, no label, no ribbon. Just a white card tucked into the flap like it had been left casually, but nothing about it was casual. Not this family. Not this situation.

I pulled the card first.

“I know you’ll look better in this dress,

Ps, Tristan”

I blinked. Then blinked again.

Of course.

He must’ve gone through my Singram, noticed I didn’t wear dresses or heels, and decided that wasn’t going to work for him. The message was clear: change who you are, because I already have an image of who you should be.

I opened the box, slowly.

A silky, muted-blue dress lay inside, draped over matching heels and a minimalist designer clutch. It was expensive. Quiet luxury. The kind of outfit that screamed classy fiancée, well-bred and well-behaved.

It was beautiful. Which made me hate it more.

Because he knew I’d look good in it. That was the problem. He was daring enough to say it, confident enough to expect I’d wear it, and calculated enough to make it feel like a gift instead of a challenge.

I stood there for a few seconds, holding the fabric in my hand.

I tossed it to side of my bed and I went to sleep.

The Next Morning

The house was quiet, the way it always was when my father wasn’t home. I stood by the window of my room, arms folded, watching the white car pull into the driveway like it had every right to be there.

A few seconds later, Ms. Agatha knocked gently.

“Mr. Pierre is here to pick you up,” she said.

I sighed.

“Tell him I’ll be down in five,” I replied, already annoyed.

I looked at the dress again.

I wore the outfit I had earlier picked , i straightened my hair and wore some jewelries to compliment my outfit.

I walked down the stairs

The sound of my sneakers against the marble staircase echoed louder than it should have.

Tristan Pierre stood just inside the doorway, tall and poised, wearing a fitted black shirt rolled at the sleeves, sharp trousers, and a watch that probably cost more than most people’s cars.

He was talking to no one, just standing there, perfectly composed.

Then he looked up.

Our eyes met.

And everything paused.

His gaze dropped, slowly, taking in what I was wearing.

Shirt. Jeans. Sneakers.

Not the dress.

Not the heels.

Not the polished, gullible version of me he had clearly imagined.

His jaw tensed ever so slightly, just a flicker, but it was there.

“Good morning,” he said, voice cool, expression unreadable.

“Morning,” I replied, just as neutral.

His eyes met mine again, darker now, steady and slightly annoyed.

“I see you got the package,” he said.

“I did,” I replied.

Long silence. Tension thick enough to wrap around my neck.

“But you didn’t wear it,” he said, looking down at me

“No,” I said simply, not blinking. “I didn’t.”

Another pause. He tilted his head slightly, studying me.

“It would’ve looked better than that,” he added, nodding once toward my outfit.

I gave him a flat smile.

“I’m not here to look better. I’m here to be myself.”

His nostrils flared slightly. He walked past me, toward the door, then stopped just before it and turned.

“You like being difficult?,” he asked

“No,” I answered, “I just don’t like being told who to be.”

That earned a small, tense laugh from him, but it wasn’t kind. It was sharp and low, like I’d amused him in spite of himself.

“Very well,” he said. “Let’s get this over with, then.”

I followed him out, the cool morning air brushing past us as we stepped toward the car. The tension between us was silent but screaming.

We hadn’t even left the driveway, and already we were at war

I got into the car and we drove out

The car was silent.

Not the comfortable kind. The kind that buzzed with everything neither of us was saying.

Tristan drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the road ahead like Monaco itself had offended him.

I stared out the window, pretending to admire the coastline, though my reflection kept pulling my attention back. I could see his eyes flick to me in the glass, quick glances, irritated, questioning.

“I can see that you really don’t like being told what to do,” he said finally, voice low but sharp.

“Yes and I really don’t like arrogance wrapped in designer fabric,” I replied without looking at him.

A beat passed. Then another.

“You’ll need thicker skin than that,” he muttered.

“I have skin just fine. What I don’t have is patience for men who think they know better.”

That got a smirk out of him, brief but real.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said.

“Good,” I shot back. “I’m not here to be predictable.”

We drove the rest of the way like that, quietly battling for ground, neither of us winning, neither willing to lose.

And honestly, I think he liked it.