Chapter 006: A game

Evian

The silence after his proposal did not break.

It fractured.

Kate’s painted smile trembled. My stepmother looked between us like she was watching her entire social ladder rearrange itself. My father tried to speak twice and failed both times.

And he just stood there.

Calm. Untouched. Certain.

“Marry me.”

Not a question. Not a plea.

A claim.

I felt every eye in the room burning into my back, waiting for me to shrink.

Instead, I stepped forward.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

I stopped close enough to smell the faint, expensive scent on his collar. His gaze lowered slightly, watching me like he was curious what move I would make next.

Good.

Let him be curious.

I reached up and straightened his tie.

Gasps fluttered through the room.

Then I rose on my toes and kissed him.

Not soft.

Not shy.

Possessive.

The sound of my stepmother’s sharp inhale was almost satisfying.

His hand came to my waist instantly. Not startled. Not confused. He deepened it just enough to make it real. To make it convincing.

When I pulled back, I kept my hand on his lapel.

“I suppose,” I said lightly, as if discussing dinner plans, “if you’re asking so seriously, we should at least talk properly.”

My father found his voice. “Evian, what are you doing?”

I didn’t look at him.

I kept my eyes on the man in front of me.

“Wait for me,” I told him.

His brow lifted slightly.

But he nodded.

“I’ll wait.”

I turned and walked upstairs without another word.

⸻

I didn’t rush.

Let them stew.

Let them wonder.

When I came back down ten minutes later, I paused just before entering the living room again.

Voices.

Desperate.

“We are honored, of course,” my father was saying, strained but greedy. “But surely you would prefer someone… more suitable. Kate is—”

“I am not interested in Miss Katherine.”

Flat. Final.

My stepmother tried next. “Perhaps this is some misunderstanding? Young people these days can be impulsive—”

Silence.

He was giving them nothing.

No reassurance. No negotiation.

I stepped into the room.

He saw me immediately.

They didn’t.

I walked straight to him, slid my hand into his, and laced our fingers together.

“Shall we?” I said.

He didn’t hesitate.

We walked out together while my family stood frozen behind us.

The gates opened.

The limousine waited.

⸻

Inside the car, the world felt smaller.

Quieter.

The second the door shut, I turned toward him and grabbed his collar.

“You put on quite a show,” I murmured.

“And you didn’t?” he replied calmly.

I kissed him again.

This time it wasn’t for them.

It was electric. Heated. Controlled chaos.

His hand slid to my waist, then lower, firm and confident. He pulled me into his lap as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

I let him.

For a moment.

His mouth moved against mine slower now, less performance, more curiosity. His fingers traced the curve of my thigh, pushing the hem of my dress slightly higher.

Heat spiraled low in my stomach.

I pulled back just enough to breathe.

My phone vibrated in my clutch.

Perfect timing.

Without breaking eye contact, I retrieved it, opened my banking app, and made a transfer.

Five million.

I turned the screen toward him.

“Payment,” I said softly. “You performed exceptionally well back there.”

His eyes flicked to the notification.

Then back to me.

There was no anger.

No offense.

Only something dangerously amused.

He chuckled under his breath.

“You think that was an act?”

I tilted my head. “Wasn’t it?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he cupped my face and kissed me again.

Slower.

Deeper.

Like he was tasting something he intended to keep.

When he pulled away, his thumb brushed my lower lip.

“So,” he asked quietly, “was my service top-notch?”

I smiled faintly.

His hand slid along my thigh again, warmer this time, more deliberate.

I caught his wrist.

Held it.

Stopped him.

Our eyes locked.

“Good girls don’t do this,” I said lightly.

A lie.

But a useful one.

His gaze darkened briefly — not with frustration, but with restraint.

He withdrew his hand immediately.

“As you wish.”

No pressure.

No protest.

That composure unsettled me more than if he had pushed.

He adjusted his cuff calmly.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“The boutique.”

His brow lifted again.

“It’s time,” I said, glancing down at my phone, “to spend some money.”

A corner of his mouth curved.

“Mine or yours?”

I looked at him.

“Does it matter?”

He leaned back against the seat, watching me like I was the most interesting thing he’d encountered all week.

“Not at all.”

The car slowed as we approached the luxury shopping district.

I moved off his lap and smoothed my dress.

Before the car stopped completely, he reached for me once more — not to restrain, not to claim.

Just to tilt my chin slightly upward.

“Evian,” he said softly.

The way he said my name felt deliberate.

Measured.

“Be careful how you spend.”

I smiled.

“I always am.”

The door opened.

Flashes of afternoon sunlight spilled into the car.

I stepped out first.

Head high.

Shoulders back.

Behind me, he followed — not like a hired companion.

Not like a groom.

But like a man entirely comfortable letting the world believe whatever story I chose to tell.

And for the first time since my mother died, I wasn’t reacting.

I was directing.

But as we walked toward the boutique entrance, I could feel it.

The shift.

This wasn’t a game of purchase and performance anymore.