The Fiancé Games

The following evening, Lia stood in front of her closet, glaring at silk, lace, and sequins like they’d personally offended her. Her grandmother’s dinner invitation—or rather, royal summons—had been made clear: formal attire, sharp punctuality, and no fighting with Adrian in front of the staff.

She’d agreed to two out of three.

After rejecting five dresses and one particularly dramatic jumpsuit, she settled on a navy velvet slip dress that clung to her like a secret. Paired with diamond studs and a wine-red pout, she was elegance with bite. A vision—albeit one with a vendetta.

Adrian arrived exactly one minute late.

He walked in like sin in tailored form: black suit, no tie, white shirt with the first two buttons undone. His cufflinks glittered like promises. His eyes darkened when they landed on her.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she warned, taking his coat without asking.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re imagining me against a wall.”

“I was thinking desk, actually,” he said casually.

She nearly choked on her own spit. “We are going to a dinner with your future in-laws.”

“And I’m preparing emotionally. By picturing you in compromising positions.”

“Charming,” she muttered, spinning on her heel.

He followed, of course. With a grin.

---

The mansion was lit up like Versailles. Crystal chandeliers. Golden trim. A butler who looked like he could recite your blood type by how you held your wine glass.

Lia felt Adrian’s hand press lightly to the small of her back.

She flinched.

He leaned down. “Relax. It’s just optics.”

“I don’t do well with being handled.”

“Noted,” he said, but didn’t move his hand.

The dining room was a parade of powerful people, family and otherwise. Her grandmother sat at the head of the table, all pearls and imperial judgment. Adrian’s uncle—the oil magnate—sat on her left. On her right was a diplomat Lia had once publicly insulted for stealing cultural artifacts. Awkward.

“Adrian, Lia, finally,” her grandmother said. “You two look…” She hesitated, assessing. “Coordinated.”

“Thank you,” Lia replied sweetly. “We dress together now. For synergy.”

Adrian chuckled under his breath.

Dinner began. Five courses. Four wine pairings. Three side-eyes from her cousin who clearly didn’t believe the engagement was anything more than a tax maneuver.

Adrian played the perfect partner. He poured her wine. He laughed at her jokes. He touched her wrist when he spoke, light enough to look intimate, firm enough to feel like possession.

She hated how good he was at this.

Halfway through the main course, someone asked the fatal question:

“So… how did you two meet?”

Lia blinked. Adrian looked at her.

She smiled. “It was raining.”

“Classic,” someone murmured.

“I was running late for a client meeting, heels soaked, umbrella snapped in the wind. He was getting into a car. I mistook him for my driver.”

Laughter around the table.

Adrian picked it up seamlessly. “She gave me the address, demanded I drive, and spent ten minutes on the phone scolding someone named Claire.”

“My assistant,” Lia added. “Poor girl didn’t know I’d hijacked a billionaire.”

“And I didn’t know I was kidnapping a hurricane in heels,” Adrian said smoothly.

More laughter.

Her grandmother raised a brow. “And you didn’t recognize Adrian Blackwell? The face of half the tech world?”

“I thought he looked familiar,” Lia lied. “But I was too busy fuming at Claire.”

Adrian winked at her behind his wine glass.

Somewhere between dessert and digestifs, her hand found his under the table.

Not for affection.

For leverage.

She squeezed. Hard.

He didn’t flinch.

But he looked at her. And smiled.

---

An hour later, they were alone on the balcony, city lights shimmering below.

“Let go of my hand,” she said calmly.

“I did,” he replied. “Ten minutes ago.”

She glanced down. Empty air.

“God, you’re good,” she muttered.

“Was that… praise?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

He stepped closer, crowding her against the balcony railing.

“Tell me something,” he said.

“No riddles tonight. I’m full of soufflé and lies.”

“You played the part well.”

“You too,” she admitted. “But I saw your uncle watching me.”

“He’s vetting you. That’s his job.”

“And?”

“And he likes you. A little too much. Which makes me uncomfortable.”

She smirked. “Jealous?”

“No. Territorial.”

“What’s the difference?”

“One is a feeling. The other is a decision.”

Their eyes locked.

The air tightened.

Lia tilted her head. “Do you always flirt like it’s chess?”

“No,” he said softly. “Only when I want to win.”

She licked her lips, suddenly too warm. “And what exactly would winning look like?”

He stepped even closer. “You. Saying my name. Like you mean it.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late.”

She stared up at him, heart racing, words caught between war and want.

Then the glass door slid open.

“Ah, there you are,” her grandmother called. “Photos. We want photos.”

They froze.

Then simultaneously stepped apart.

Lia grabbed his arm with a practiced smile. “Coming, Nana.”

The photos were a nightmare: fake-laughing, fake-hand-holding, fake-couple goals.

But his arm felt real around her waist.

Too real.

---

Later, in the car ride back, silence settled between them like fog.

Lia stared out the window, mascara perfect, heart a mess.

“Do you regret it yet?” he asked.

“The deal?”

“The engagement. The lies. Me.”

She didn’t look at him. “I don’t regret anything I choose.”

He was quiet a long moment.

Then: “I kissed someone once. Just to prove I didn’t feel anything. It backfired.”

She turned. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because if I kiss you, it won’t be a test.”

She swallowed. Hard.

“Then don’t kiss me, Adrian.”

He leaned in.

“Too late.”

But he didn’t.

Instead, he brushed his lips near her ear. Barely a ghost of contact. Enough to burn.

Then he pulled back, eyes blazing.

“Goodnight, Lia.”

And left her alone with her heart thundering like war drums.

---

Back in her apartment, Lia stared at herself in the mirror.

She’d won battles tonight. Impressed the family. Outplayed the rumors. Flirted with the devil.

But something inside her had shifted.

Adrian was supposed to be an obstacle. A checkbox. A challenge to conquer.

Instead, he’d become a storm she wasn’t ready for.

Worse—she wasn’t sure she wanted to stop it.

---

Meanwhile, in his penthouse, Adrian looked at the bracelet still in his pocket. The one he hadn’t returned after all.

He held it up to the light. Ran a thumb over its delicate etching.

He could still smell her perfume.

Still hear her laugh.

Still feel her hand on his.

He closed his eyes.

And smiled.

Let the games begin.

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