Chapter Five: Plan

     I forced myself to stay calm while facing Dylan. After taking a slow, deep breath, I began to speak.

 

"Mr. Anderson, I didn’t come here to argue. I only came because of the—" I cut myself off abruptly. The moment I was about to mention the marriage, the words seemed to stucked in my throat, and I couldn’t bring myself to say them.

 

"Hmm, because of what?" His voice held a clear teasing lilt.

 

"Ugh, please stop making fun of me. I know I look a mess right now. And honestly, this is the very first time I’ve ever tried to talk to you about something this serious," I replied.

 

"Tsk. So does that mean… you’ve finally agreed to marry me?" he asked straight to the point.

"Yeah."

"Okay. I’ll have my personal assistant arrange everything so we can proceed with the marriage immediately." He said and was about to stand up but I quickly stopped him.

"We haven’t finished discussing this yet," I protested.

 

"Huh? Why not? Is there anything else you need to say?"

 

"Tsk—what kind of question is that? Of course we still need to talk. We have to sort everything out before we—"

 

"Sort things out? This is just a marriage on paper! What exactly is there to plan?" he asked, sounding clearly annoyed.

 

I didn’t reply immediately. He was right—this was never a real marriage. Realizing that, I suddenly felt a wave of embarrassment.

 

"I suppose there’s nothing left for us to discuss. My assistant will contact you sometime soon, perhaps tomorrow, to let you know when we’ll be traveling to Florida. I’m leaving now; I’ve already spent far too much time here," he said, turning his back to walk away.

 

"Wait—just a moment," I called out, stopping him once again before he could leave.

 

"What is it?" he snapped, his tone still sharp and filled with annoyance.

 

"What about our families? Should we tell them we’re planning to get divorced after a few months?"

"Hell no!" he responded promptly. "They don't need to know our plan because if that happens they will stop us from going to Florida. They will insist that we should get married here. Then, what? My whole life will become a mess, just because of our bullshit marriage?" he said sharply that's why I stunned for a while and there's no single word escaped my lips.

He finally left and all I could do was to stare him while slowly walking away. He was really rude to me. I'm actually thinking about us getting married and living in the same roof feels like I'm living in a goddamn hell.

"Gosh! You're so bad at joking, Lord!" I suddenly blurted out. Then I looked at my wristwatch. It was almost eight o'clock in the evening, so I decided to go out of that restaurant.

I walked over to the company parking lot and got straight into my car.

 

I didn’t drive off immediately. My chest felt tight and heavy, and before I knew it, I had buried my face against the steering wheel—only to realize I was crying again.

 

I stayed like that for nearly thirty minutes, and only started the car once I had finally calmed down enough to drive.

 

A while later, I arrived home.

 

The whole place was quiet and dark. I assumed my parents must have gone to bed early, so I headed straight for my room. But just as my hand touched the doorknob, I heard the sound of laughter.

 

I turned back and walked toward it, only to stop in shock when I saw that my parents had guests over. I’d assumed they were fast asleep in their rooms, but goodness, here they were, happily enjoying themselves.

 

I felt a surge of anger rise up inside me. I wanted to scream at them, to demand how they could still be having fun while the company was losing money and their own child was suffering so much.

 

Overcome with frustration and disgust, I walked straight over to them.

 

Mom was the first to notice me there and immediately called me.

"Oh, Freya, dear! You’re home!" she greeted me with a bright smile, kissing my cheek. "Dylan’s parents are here. We were just discussing your wedding, so—"

 

"Mom, please… Dylan and I already had a proper talk earlier," I said, almost in a whisper. I then forced myself to face Dylan’s parents.

 

"Um, Uncle, Auntie… I’m sorry, but you don’t need to discuss the marriage arrangements anymore. We’ve already settled everything, and his assistant will handle all the preparations within the week."

 

"Oh, that’s wonderful news, dear!" Dylan’s parents replied together, sounding delighted.

"I think it's better if you join us here, honey!" Dylan's mother insisted.

"I’m sorry, Auntie… but I’m not feeling well right now. I’d really like to go rest in my room."

 

"Oh, of course. You go ahead, sweetheart."

 

I was just about to turn and leave when Mr. Anderson suddenly spoke up. "Hmm, you know, I think Dylan should be here too. That way, he can look after his fiancée properly."

 

"You’re absolutely right, Theodore. That’s a wonderful idea," Dad agreed immediately. His response caught me completely off guard.

 

"What? Why would that be necessary?" I blurted out, glancing from one of them to another in shock.

"Besides, I want to ask Dylan why you two have to fly all the way to Florida just for the wedding," Dad insisted.

 

"Tsk, Dad! It’s already late. Dylan needs his rest too. Don’t bother him anymore—he’s exhausted," I argued.

 

"Well, he will still have to come here eventually, dear. He needs to pick us up before we leave," his mother chimed in again.

 

I didn’t bother debating with them any longer. I quickly turned around, went back inside the house, and headed straight to my room. As soon as I got in, I laid down on the bed.

 

But only a few minutes had passed when I heard someone knocking at my door. Frowning in confusion, I got up and opened it.

"What on earth—" I cut myself off, my eyes going wide in shock when I realized it was Dylan standing at my door.

 

"What? Are you just going to stand there and stare? You’re not even going to let me in?"

 

"Hold on a second! Why would I let you come inside my room? You should be waiting in the living area!" I retorted with a huff. But I never expected him to just walk right in without my permission. If I hadn’t been gripping the doorknob tightly, his rude, forceful entrance would have definitely knocked me flat on the floor.

 

"What do you think you’re doing here, Mr. Anderson?"

 

"Can you please just be quiet? I’m not going to answer any of your questions if you keep shouting at me," he complained.

"Asshole! This is my room that's why you can't blame me for my reaction!" I insist.

"You think I'd come here at this hour just to visit you? Come to think of it, brat!"

I stayed silent for a moment, suddenly recalling what our parents had mentioned earlier—that Dylan would be coming here tonight.

 

"Cat got your tongue now? Tsk. Don’t go getting any ideas. No matter how nicely you try to act toward me, it makes no difference...I still don’t care about you at all," Dylan stated firmly. To be honest, his words stung a little, but I knew I had no right to complain. After all, there was nothing special between us.

 

"I’m not assuming anything. I was just caught off guard because you showed up so suddenly," I defended myself.

 

"Listen, I just want to remind you, we’re only going through with this for our parents’ sake. And—"

 

"I know," I cut him off quickly, wanting to stop him from saying anything more. "I’m doing this to save our company. And you… you’re only doing this because you owe my mother a huge favor, isn’t that right?"

 

"Exactly. You’ve got it right, kid," he replied, sitting down casually on the edge of my bed.

 

"Get out. I’m going to bed now, Dylan."

"I can't! I have to pretend that I'm watching over you."

"What? Why do you have to do that?"

"Because it’s what they told me to do. My mom said you weren’t feeling well, so they instructed me to stay here and keep an eye on you."

 

"Goodness! I’m not a child that needs looking after. Besides, I’m not actually sick at all. I only lied to them so they’d stop asking me questions about our marriage."

 

"I know that. But we have no choice but to play along. I don’t want them messing up our arrangement. Remember—they have no idea we plan to get a divorce later on."

 

"How many months until—"

 

"One year. I think twelve months is enough time to sort out everything that needs fixing."

 

"One year? Dylan, that’s such an incredibly long time!"

"Stop your complaining! Your company has suffered huge financial losses, and it’s going to take quite a while before it fully recovers."

 

I wanted to argue further, but I couldn’t think of any good reason to say that would convince him to shorten the time we had to spend pretending to be a loving couple.