Fake Date, Real Fate-Chapter 117: Bubble of Tension

The elevator doors hissed open with their usual polite, yet slightly menacing, sigh.

I stepped inside, hitting the button for the executive floor. The smooth ascent felt like the calm before the storm.

The display panel counted down: 10, 9, 8... My stomach did a little flip, not of nerves exactly, but of... anticipation? Amusement? It was a dangerous game I play every day, and I was becoming disturbingly good at it.

The doors slid open on on our floor, revealing the polished chrome and muted blues of the executive hallway. And there he was. Right outside the elevator bank, leaning casually against the opposite wall, looking entirely too put-together for this hour. His arms were crossed, his jaw tight, and his gaze, sharp and assessing, landed directly on me.

"You’re late," Adrien stated, his voice low and devoid of warmth, just the crisp, authoritative tone he used when addressing a late employee. It was a challenge, a power play masked as a simple observation.

I didn’t flinch. Instead, a slow smirk spread across my lips. I stepped out of the elevator, letting the doors close behind me, effectively trapping us in this small bubble of tension.

I lowered my voice, pitching it just above a whisper as I walked past him, my gaze briefly meeting his.

"Careful, Mr Walton," I murmured, my smirk deepening. "I might tell your girlfriend how you speak to me."

He froze. Literally. His casual lean vanished, his arms uncrossed slightly, and his eyes widened, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them.

Then, the tension broke. A slow, knowing smirk mirrored mine, returning to his face. The sharpness in his eyes softened, replaced by a glint of amusement that was entirely for me.

"She’s terrifying," he said, the corner of his mouth hooking upwards. "I love her."

"Lucky her."

"She doesn’t believe in luck," he murmured, stepping aside so I could pass. "Just preparation and five different backup plans."

"That sounds like a compliment."

"It was."

He straightened up, pushing off the wall. The air between us shifted, the professional facade cracking just enough for the shared understanding to show.

He didn’t wait for a response, just shifted, indicating with a slight tilt of his head that we should move.

He started walking beside me as we began the short walk down the hall towards my desk, positioned strategically right outside the large doors of his office. The click of our shoes echoed on the polished floor, a small, private rhythm in the quiet morning hallway.

By the time we reached my desk, instead of going straight to his office, he stopped at the edge of my desk and placed a small object down with surprising care.

A thermos. No—a flask.

And not just any flask. It was a vibrant, almost offensively pink flask, adorned with tiny white bows and an variety of glittery, cartoonish princess prints.

My eyes widened, then crinkled with immediate, uncontrollable laughter. A genuine, bubbling laugh that escaped before I could even try to contain it.

"Here," he said, his tone business-like as if he were handing over a critical report. "There’s tea inside. Good for body pain, muscle soreness, that kind of thing. Had it brewed fresh this morning. From the leaves we got upstate last week."

I stared at the flask, then back at him. My lips twitched. He looked utterly serious, discussing medicinal tea stored in a princess flask.

"Boyfriend," I managed, shaking my head, still grinning at the sheer ridiculousness of it. "My love, Mr. Walton," I added playfully, winking at the last one. "I never knew you were into things like this." I gestured pointedly at the flask, the tiny bows practically mocking his serious CEO demeanor.

He blinked, looking genuinely confused. "What? Into what?"

"This," I said, pointing a finger at the cascade of animated royalty and pastel bows adorning the metal surface. "The bows? The sparkles? The tiara motif?"

He stared at the outstanding item, then back at me, a bewildered expression on his face. "What—no. That’s not—I didn’t even notice—"

"Oh, it’s okay," I teased, leaning closer, my voice dropping like I want to talk about a secret. "I completely understand if you have a whole collection of these at home. . Maybe a superhero one for Mondays? A pirate theme for casual Fridays or a unicorn one? Or perhaps a mermaid...?"

His face was a picture of offended denial. "No! Absolutely not. I just bought that yesterday. For you." He ran a hand through his hair, looking ticked off. "Stop playing with me."

My grin widened. "So you saw a lineup of choices and thought: ’Yes. She needs the royal baby pink one.’"

"It was the only one with a twist-lock lid."

"Oh, sure."

"Stop playing with me, Isabella," he said as a warning now—but his ears had gone a little red.

My laughter subsided, replaced by a warm, fond smile. I held the flask gently. "Okay, okay. I’m just teasing." I looked down at the absurd, adorable thing in my hands.

"So," he said, his voice a little softer now, a hint of vulnerability in his tone as he watched me. "You don’t like the design?"

I looked up at him, softening just enough. "I love the design. And the tea. And the boyfriend who apparently panic-shopped in a princess aisle to help my joints feel better."

"I didn’t panic," he muttered.

"Right," I said lightly, unscrewing the lid to take a sip. It was still warm—earthy and soothing, with a faint floral hint. "Is this chamomile?"

"And ginger. And white turmeric. The tea maker said it’d help with... soreness." He cleared his throat. "You know. From... us."

"From yesterday," he continued, not quite meeting my eyes. "Your legs were shaking, so—"

"Adrien!" I hissed, eyes flicking toward the hallway.

He looked proud. Infuriatingly so. "Don’t act like you didn’t crawl into bed sore."

I covered my face with one hand, half-laughing, half-dying. "You’re evil."

"Mm," he said, brushing a stray piece of hair off my cheek. "And you love it."

"Take it now, it’s medicinal," he said firmly.

"Of course it is."

He leaned in, voice low. "Make sure you drink all of it. Or I’m switching to foot rubs next."

I raised a brow. "Is that a threat?"

"Promise," he murmured.

I rolled my eyes and gestured toward his office. "Go, Mr. Walton. You’ve got meetings."

He took a step back, gaze still lingering on me. "Text me if you need anything."

"I have tea," I said. "And a ridiculous pink flask."

He gave me a slow, satisfied once-over, then turned and walked into his office without another word.

And yet, somehow, that silence said everything.

I was still smiling. Because so was he.

****

The tea was barely half gone when the calendar alert pinged.

Walkthrough: Johnsons. 14:00.

Departure: 13:10 sharp.

I glanced toward Adrien’s office ready to remind him.

A second later, my phone dinged and it was a text message from Adrien.

PEACOCK

Ready when you are.

I snorted softly at the name on my screen.

PEACOCK.

Not "Adrien." Not "Mr. Walton."

No. This man had the audacity to name himself Peacock in my contacts after I called him that again yesterday while we were going about his excessive self-grooming and general arrogance. He wore the title like a crown now.

Of course he’s ready. He’s probably been ready since dawn. In a three-piece suit. With his schedule printed and bound in leather.

I stood, tucking the flask carefully into my bag and smoothing my skirt with one hand. The soreness in my thighs flared just slightly when I moved too quickly—and of course, the memory came rushing back with it.

Foot rubs, I reminded myself with a shake of my head.

Still grinning, I grabbed my tablet, adjusted the cuffs of my blouse, and walked to his office door. I didn’t even need to knock—he was already opening it, like he’d been standing just on the other side, waiting for my footsteps. fɾeeweɓnѳveɭ.com

His eyes flicked to mine.

"I hope you’re not planning to limp through the entire site walkthrough," he murmured under his breath, his voice low enough that only I could hear it.

"I’ll walk fine," I replied coolly, brushing past him into the office. "I’ll even wave to the clients without collapsing, Your Majesty."

His mouth twitched. "Majesty, is it?"

"Well," I said as I pulled up the site map on my screen, "you did text me under Peacock."

He cleared his throat but didn’t deny it.

We spent the next fifteen minutes reviewing the updated route for the Johnson Group’s visit. Adrien was his usual hyper-efficient self—pointing out notes, anticipating questions, adjusting the talking points so he wouldn’t have to repeat himself more than once. I followed along easily. This part of our rhythm was second nature by now.

Still, there were moments when our fingers brushed over the same screen, or when I caught him watching me instead of the slides. And when I handed him his remaining schedule for the day, our hands lingered just a second too long.

He caught it. So did I.

But neither of us said a word.

We left the building at exactly 13:10, we looked perfectly polished.

The sourc𝗲 of this content is fre(e)novelkiss