8. Dimpled Lies

Ann stood frozen in fear as the can of soda slipped from her hand and hit the floor with a hollow clatter. The fizzy liquid hissed as it spilled, trailing in chaotic lines across the clean tiled floor. Her throat tightened, her heart thudding violently against her ribs like it wanted to escape. The words echoed in her ears like a curse—her middle name. That name.

“Did-did-did he mention my middle name?” she stuttered, each syllable dragging over her tongue like gravel. Her voice barely carried, but the tremor in it was unmistakable.

Peter didn’t respond. His expression had shuttered into something unreadable. He was no longer looking at her but at the wall behind her, his jaw tight, his body rigid. Silence answered her, stretching into a long, dreadful confirmation. Ann didn’t need more. She already knew. He knew. They all knew.

Then came the sound she dreaded more than the truth—Diana’s soft, gleeful giggle. The kind of laugh that danced on schadenfreude and sharpened like a knife.

That was her answer.

Ann flinched, recoiling like she’d been slapped. Her face flushed with heat, a deep, crawling shame that started in her stomach and rose up her spine like bile. She could feel eyes—imagined or real—pressing against her, judging, ridiculing, laughing. The name… that name… not here. Not now.

“Adorabele has a nice ring to it,” Diana said sweetly, her tone laced with smugness. “It is truly a very nice and adorable middle name, Ann. I sincerely don’t know why you hate it so much.”

Ann didn’t answer with words. Her entire body went taut, her fingers curling into tight fists at her sides. Her pulse thudded in her ears. Though Diana was smiling, her eyes glittered with malice, like a child gleefully pulling the wings off a butterfly. That name had power, and Diana knew it now.

Before the words could even fully settle in the air, Ann moved. She spun on her heel and had Diana shoved against the pillar before anyone nearby could react.

With her teeth clenched and eyes ablaze, Ann hissed, “If I ever—and I mean ever—hear you mention that name or tell anyone about it, I’ll tell everyone about the time I saw you with Mr. Flincher in the washroom… Just try me, Diana. I dare you.”

Diana’s smirk evaporated. She paled visibly, her cocky veneer crumbling beneath Ann’s glare. Everyone in the restaurant had heard stories about Mr. Flincher. A grotesque millionaire, older than most of their grandfathers, infamous for his repulsive preferences. Girls whispered about him in locker rooms and storage closets, half-laughing, half-recoiling in disgust. He paid well, but the price was dignity.

Ann watched the flicker of fear take root in Diana’s eyes, saw it bloom into panic. She didn’t wait for a response. With one final push, she released her, wiped her hands with a napkin from a passing tray, and turned sharply on her heel.

Peter stood by, watching the scene unfold. Disappointment was etched across his face like stone—disappointment not in Ann, but in Diana. She had once seemed different. Polite, reserved. He had vouched for her. And yet, here she was, just like the others.

He didn’t say a word. Just turned and walked away.

Ann stormed toward the VIP section, muttering under her breath. “Who the hell does he think he is? Coming here, shouting that name for everyone to hear. A name I’ve spent years trying to erase. What next? Is he going to pull out my birth certificate too?” Her cheeks were hot with a flush that had nothing to do with exertion. “So shameful,” she whispered, brushing a hand over her face. Her blush was a burning reminder that some wounds never really heal—they just scab over, waiting to be torn open again.

By the time she reached the VIP lounge, her fury was trembling at the edge of combustion. She didn’t bother to knock. She shoved the door open, her voice already loaded with sarcasm. “Hell…o—oh! What are you doing here?” Her tone faltered at the sight of the face she knew all too well.

The smirk on Rex’s lips grew the moment he saw her expression twist in recognition. She’s miserable. Good. The thought pleased him. He relished the power, the control. The old sense of superiority settled comfortably on his shoulders. And this—this was only the beginning.

“Miss Adorabele?” he said smoothly.

“Don’t call me that,” Ann snapped, her voice sharp enough to slice through glass. That name was a part of her she’d buried long ago. It wasn’t meant to rise again.

Rex didn’t flinch. In fact, he leaned forward slightly, his smile never faltering. “Isn’t it impolite to speak to your customers in this manner? Or have you forgotten where you are?” His eyes glittered. “Don’t forget—I can lodge a complaint. I can even talk to the owner directly. Your precious manager might try to protect you, but I assure you, even he won’t be able to shield you this time.”

Ann bit the inside of her cheek. She wanted to scream, to slam the door in his face and walk away forever. But Peter. His job, his name, his faith in her—it was all on the line. Rex was right.

So she did what she had learned to do to survive.

She smiled.

It was dazzling—dimples deep, lips curved with a practiced grace—but hollow. The kind of smile that could trick the cameras but never fooled the soul. Her eyes were dead. A person who knew how to read her would see it immediately, but Rex—he only saw victory.

She looked at the three men seated with him. Instantly, she recognized the wealth dripping from their tailored suits, the subtle arrogance in their posture, the ease with which they claimed the space around them. Billionaire boys. She didn’t need Judith’s fashion magazine obsession to tell her who they were.

Great. More entitled brats.

She muttered under her breath, too low for most ears, “God, did He use a special mold to create these guys? They look like they were carved out of marble or something. Like mini gods in designer suits.”

Rex’s eyes narrowed. “ Why are you whispering? What are you whispering? Are you insulting me again? I won’t tolerate it this time.”

Ann didn’t answer. Her gaze lingered on the guy to Rex’s left—sharp jawline, smirking lips, and kind eyes—and then flitted to the next. Each one could’ve passed as a model for GQ. She was still ogling when Rex called her name sharply.

“Ann!”

She jumped, startled, and scowled at him before turning to the trio with her best waitress smile. “Good evening, gentlemen. Welcome to Craves Bar and Restaurant. Would you like to see the menu before ordering?”

The three men grinned. Her charm was instant. The one in navy leaned in slightly, clearly impressed.

Rex, on the other hand, was fuming.

‘She can be sweet to them, but not to me?’ he thought bitterly. ‘I brought them here to humiliate her, not to let her make friends with them!’

He slammed his palm against the table. “Guys, enough! I brought you here to help me put her in her place, not to ogle her like star-struck schoolboys!”

Ann turned on her heel and walked toward the sideboard to retrieve their menus, then paused and looked over her shoulder. “Excuse me, gentlemen—and hoodlum—please give me a moment to get the menus.”

Laughter erupted from the table. They knew exactly who the ‘hoodlum’ was and they didn’t need a seer to point it out.

Rex’s eyes flashed dangerously. “You’re all hopeless,” he growled at his friends. “I brought you here for backup, not for this clown show.”

King Hin, the liveliest of the three, leaned forward with shining eyes. “But she’s so cute,” he cooed. “Did you see that smile? And the dimples? Ugh, it’s like trying to yell at a baby duck. I can’t even glare at her looking like that. No wonder her middle name is Adorabele. She’s so adorable! Can we keep her? Can we? Can we? Please, pleassssseeee Rexy?”

The glare Rex shot him was enough to stop Hin mid-sentence. He found sudden interest in the tablecloth.

The remaining two burst into laughter. An amuse laughter.

Ann, hearing none of their antics, returned with the menus, that professional smile never leaving her lips. But inside? Inside she was a thunderstorm.

This wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.