Alle Kapitel von The Ice King's Fake Girlfriend: Kapitel 11 – Kapitel 20

"We are not going back to my studio," Tiffany said, glaring at the tinted partition of the Maybach. "This isn't the way to the Flatiron District." Julian didn't look up from his tablet. His thumb swiped through a series of financial spreadsheets with rhythmic, infuriating precision. "Your studio can wait. Your wardrobe cannot." "Excuse me?" Tiffany leaned forward, her signature orange silk scarf fluttering. "There is absolutely nothing wrong with my wardrobe. I am a designer, Julian. I literally dress for a living." "You dress for a creative collective," Julian said, his voice a cool, level baritone. "You do not dress for a wolf pack. Tonight is the private dinner with the Ravencourt executive board. Tomorrow is the city heritage foundation gala. The press will be analyzing your hemlines like they're reading tea leaves." "So? Let them read. I have excellent taste." Julian finally

"Are you sure we didn't accidentally step into a futuristic operating room?" Tiffany asked, her heels clicking a sharp, echoing rhythm against the polished black basalt floor. The private elevator doors slid shut behind them with a silent, heavy hiss. Before them stretched Julian Ravencourt’s personal sanctuary: a sprawling, triplex penthouse perched atop the highest tower in the city. Glass walls wrapped around the perimeter, offering a dizzying, three-hundred-sixty-degree view of the glittering skyline. "It is minimalist," Julian said, his voice a cool, unbothered baritone as he draped his charcoal suit jacket over a flawless, matte-black console table. "It maximizes space and eliminates unnecessary distractions." "No, Julian. Minimalist implies there was an aesthetic choice to simplify," Tiffany said, walking slowly into the center of the massive living area. She spun on her heel, her emerald-green velvet trouse

"A double date," Julian repeated, the words dropping from his lips like lead weights into a fishpond. He didn't look up from his tablet, his thumb flicking across the glass screen with rhythmic, terrifying precision. "With Nathaniel and his current companion. You are joking." "Do I look like I'm joking?" Tiffany slammed her canvas tote bag onto the pristine basalt counter of the penthouse kitchen, the heavy brass hardware clanking loudly against the stone. "Look at my face, Julian. Do you see amusement? Because I feel like I'm about to chew through drywall." Julian finally locked the tablet screen, setting it down with a soft clack. He rose from his barstool, towering over her by a solid foot, his broad shoulders straining against the sharp fabric of his white button-down shirt. "Nathaniel knows as well as we do that our arrangement is under public scrutiny. Inviting us to Le Petit Chateaux under the guise of professional civility is not an

"Fear is not an emotion I keep in my vocabulary, Tiffany," Julian murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he closed the remaining inches between them. His gaze locked onto hers with a piercing intensity that made her breath hitch. "If you want to walk into the lion’s den, we walk. But we play by my rules." "Your rules usually involve a non-disclosure agreement and a corporate lawyer," Tiffany retorted, though her voice lacked its previous razor-sharp edge, slightly derailed by the sudden proximity of his broad chest. "Tonight, the rules are simpler," Julian replied smoothly. "Look pretty, stay close, and let me handle the psychological destruction." An hour later, the crystalline chandeliers of Le Petit Chateaux sparkled overhead, casting shimmering reflections across white linen tablecloths and gleaming silverware. The restaurant hummed with the quiet, stifled conversations of the city's elite, a symphony of whispered

The heavy oak door of Tiffany’s cramped studio clicked shut, muffled only slightly by the hum of the ancient window-unit air conditioner rattling in its frame. Leo didn't even look up from the three monitors stacked haphazardly across his wobbly pine desk, his fingers hammering away at a mechanical keyboard like a percussionist possessed. "Tell me you didn't eat raw oysters at that French place," Leo muttered, not breaking his rhythm as green-tinted lines of code and public financial records cascaded down his primary screen. "Because if you brought food poisoning into my workspace, I am billing Julian Ravencourt for hazard pay." Tiffany kicked off her heels, letting them drop with a dull thud against the scuffed linoleum floor, and tossed her designer clutch onto the nearest drafting table. "I didn't eat oysters, Leo. I sat across a table from Nathaniel for two hours while he tried to weaponize my sophomore year GPA against me, and the