18

THEA

Two weeks ago, I emailed Ezra Harrington agreeing to lean into the rumours to protect my career.

Worst mistake of my life. Without counting Sebastian.

And now, if hell had a waiting room, I imagine it would look exactly like Ezra Harrington’s office. This is the fifth time I'll be here.

Yeah, that explains how much I hate being in his place. Same can't be said for him though.

“I have rules,” I say, dropping into the chair opposite him without being offered. “Non-negotiable. Bulletproof. Ironclad.” I add.

Because I'm not about to let what happened yesterday repeat itself.

Ezra doesn’t look up from his laptop. He’s wearing another soul-sucking suit and a cold face that could make milk go sour..

“Good morning to you too, darling,” he mutters, fingers still typing.

I ignore the term of endearment. It’s the third one today, and it’s barely 9 a.m. I grip my coffee cup tighter.

I clear my throat. “So boss,”

He looks up,

“Remember I said we should set some rules.” I repeat.

He turns his attention back to his keyboard. “So?”

“The first rule,” I say, pointing at him with my coffee cup, “no public pet names unless absolutely necessary. If we’re in private, call me by my name. Thea. Carlisle. Not babe, not sweetheart, not honey, and definitely not sugarplum.”

His eyes finally lift to mine. “Sugarplum?”

“I’ve been traumatized. Don’t ask.”

He leans back, steeples his fingers, and smirks. “Fine. What else?”

I swallow my surprise. I believe Ezra Harrington, my cold grumpy ass wicked pants boss has been swapped.

But I continue nonetheless,

“Rule two, no touching without warning. That includes waist grabs, unexpected hand-holding, or the weird thing you did yesterday where you brushed a strand of hair behind my ear like a rom-com villain.”

He shrugs. “I was improvising.”

“Well, don’t. I almost slapped you.”

There’s a beat of silence. He tilts his head.

“Noted. Though if we’re faking this properly, a little physical affection is expected.”

I lean in, squinting my eyes as the warmth from my coffee seeps into my skin. “You want affection? Buy a dog.”

He hums, appearing thoughtful.

“I had a dog once.”

“Let me guess, he died?”

He shakes his head. “No, he ran away.”

Smart dog.

“So, back to the rules.” I say. “Three, we don't talk about our past relationships. Especially mine. And not in front of other people. If they want some personal tea, you spill more of yours. I can fake-cry for you in the ladies room just to add more juicy stuff for the paparazzi.”

But I can't have another emotional breakdown about mine.

He chuckles.

This is the second time in two weeks. And it's not those dark chuckle or smirks. Gosh. I blink at him like he's grown two heads.

“Boss? Are you… laughing?” I ask cautiously.

His mouth twitches. “Not at you. Just… at how bossy you are. It's cute.”

My nose flares. God, this is getting out of hand.

“Rule four. Never use the word cute when referring to me. I'm a full grown woman with excellent bone structure and a restraining order-worthy temper.”

He leans forward, like how he always does during negotiations in the boardroom. “So noted.”

I narrow my eyes at him and lean back. “And no surprise PDA.” Yes, I'm already traumatised enough in just two weeks. “No grabbing me out of nowhere. And I repeat, don't tuck my hair behind my ears without my permission.”

He turns back to his laptop. “We agreed to lean into the speculation.” He says, openly unbothered.

“But we didn't agree to dive headfirst into it like a shirtless maniac.”

He sighs again. Something he has been doing a lot these days.

I shouldn't be noticing stuff like that.

“You’ve clearly never been a billionaire's girlfriend before right?”

I snort. “I'm not your girlfriend.”

He raises a brow, his pale blue eyes appearing lighter. “Fake girlfriend then. Same difference in the eyes of the press.”

“And the difference in my eyes.” I mutter.

He leans against his chair again. “Now that you've listed all your rules, I should list mine too.”

I have a bad feeling about this. He starts.

“Rule number one, smile for the cameras. Even when you want to murder me, which judging by your expression, is often. If you don't, they'll think I'm holding you hostage.”

“I'm being held hostage.” I fire back.

He grins like the devil in horror movies, ignoring me as he continues, “We hold hands in public.”

“Huh?”

“Not for romance.” He continues. “Optic.”

“Optics can suck.”

Nonetheless, he continues smoothly. “Rule number three, you let me step into your space.”

Shit.

“I knew it.” I say, placing my coffee cup on his table with a thud. “Even before this, you do step into my personal space in purpose.”

“Closeness sells.” He replies. I can't help but think of him as shameless. “The paparazzi are always watching now. They've been stalking this building since that night.”

“And what has that gotten to do with me? Couples are supposed to keep their stuff private.”

“You've clearly never been a billionaire's girlfriend before.”

“Mr. Harrington.” I call, biting back my rage and holding myself from hitting him with my cup.

He has a way of getting on my nerves.

He smirks. “Relax sugarplum, it's all part of the act.”

I give up.

I lean back into my seat, dragging my hand down my face as I let out a harsh breathe. I can never prepare myself enough for this.

He leans forward. “And the thing is that, we fake it until they believe it. Then, one day, we announce our breakup. You cry publicly. I brood dramatically. Press gets bored. End of the story.”

I lose my job. End of the story.

But I don't say it out.

This is a gamble. And I'd just chosen the lesser of the devils.

Instead of ruining the mood because of my mood, I say, “So your entire plan is a PR soap opera.”

“Exactly.”

Shit.

I regret everything.

But… it's too late now.