Fake Date, Real Fate-Chapter 118: The Walkthrough

The mall gleamed like a polished promise—every glass panel spotless, every light strategically warm.

It wasn’t just complete.

It was perfect.

Months of stress, planning, meetings that stretched into the night... and somehow, it had all led to this.

I adjusted my blouse slightly and double-checked the folder in my arms. Johnson Proposal. Final walkthrough. No room for mistakes.

Adrien stood a few feet ahead, already speaking to one of the site coordinators, his posture straight and unreadable as always. He didn’t need to raise his voice. People simply listened.

I stayed half a step behind and to his left, my usual position. Just close enough to be included in the conversation if necessary, just far enough to pretend I wasn’t already cataloging who forgot to follow proper layout protocol. Again.

"Mr. Johnson is almost here," I murmured, barely tilting my head.

Adrien didn’t look at me, but I felt the flicker of his attention shift. "Mm," he said. A sound that meant he’d already known.

An SUV pulled up moments later. The back door opened, and Mr. Johnson himself stepped out—grey-haired, in a steel-blue suit that probably cost more than my rent. His assistant scrambled out after him.

"Adrien," he said warmly, shaking his hand. "This place looks incredible. I had my doubts early on, but—"

"I don’t build for doubt," Adrien replied smoothly. "I build for permanence."

Adrien offered a practiced smile, firm handshake, and a polite, "Always a pleasure, Mr. Johnson. We’re very excited to see the final result."

"Typical," I thought, tucking the folder more securely under my arm.

Then, Mr. Johnson’s gaze slid past Adrien and landed on me. I kept my expression neutral, professional – a small, polite smile in place.

I straightened up myself well, ready to introduce myself—until he interrupted the thought entirely.

"Well, well," he said, eyes twinkling. "You must be the one I’ve been emailing. Miss Miller, right?"

"Yes, sir," I said, offering a polite, professional smile. "Isabella Miller. I handle the coordination for the Johnson proposal."

"Is that all you handle?" he asked with a laugh. "You’re far too beautiful to be tucked behind a desk, young lady."

The breath hitched in my throat, a tiny, involuntary protest. Mr. Johnson’s comment hung in the air, heavy and unwelcome. Behind the polite smile, my mind raced: Did he really just say that? Months of painstaking work, late nights, negotiating with contractors, finessing budgets – and that was his takeaway? My appearance?

I felt, rather than saw, Adrien shift beside me. He hadn’t said a word, hadn’t offered a deflection or a pointed stare at Mr. Johnson. His silence was its own kind of pressure, a familiar weight that could be interpreted in a dozen ways – indifference, observation, annoyance... I had long ago stopped trying to decipher him in public.

Still, I nodded and redirected. "We’ve arranged a full walkthrough. The client-side access elevators were rechecked this morning and the smart display boards are fully responsive now."

Mr. Johnson chuckled. "Right, right. Business. Of course." He didn’t apologize, didn’t seem to register the impropriety.

"Excellent," Adrien cut in, his voice finally entering the conversation. It was smooth, efficient, and perfectly neutral, like a buffered response that acknowledged the shift without drawing attention to the preceding awkwardness. "Shall we begin? Isabella has prepared a route that covers all key operational areas, client amenities, and retail spaces." He gestured vaguely towards the main entrance of the mall, the polished floor stretching like a runway before us.

Mr. Johnson seemed happy to be guided. "Lead the way, Mr. Walton. I’m eager to see the magic you’ve pulled off."

Adrien turned and began walking, setting a brisk, controlled pace.

We moved through the lower concourse, our steps echoing softly in the wide, newly tiled space. The Johnson Mall—polished and open, with glass skylights casting slanted beams of late-afternoon light across the floors—felt like a living thing now.

I listed features as we walked: biometric locks, sustainability upgrades, tenant-ready spaces. Mr. Johnson mostly listened. Mostly.

"Miss Miller," he said suddenly, as I was pointing out the smart climate-control system embedded in the ceiling panels. "You make this place sound like a luxury yacht."

I smiled politely. "Well, it’s meant to be as smooth as one. Minus the ocean."

He laughed, the kind of laugh that said he was enjoying himself a little too much. "If you ever get tired of this place, you let me know. My team could use someone with your poise and... presentation."

My smile tightened, but I kept it pasted on. Presentation? Was that really all he saw? I nodded slowly, deliberately. "Thank you, Mr. Johnson. I’m quite happy coordinating here, though." My tone was polite, firm, leaving no room for negotiation.

I felt the familiar pressure of Adrien beside me. He still hadn’t explicitly done anything, hadn’t stepped in to shut Johnson down. He was just... there, a silent observer. Was he letting me handle it? Or was he simply not bothered? The thought was a cold prickle under my skin.

"These panels," I continued smoothly, pivoting back to the technology, "are linked to a sophisticated sensor network. They adjust temperature and airflow based on occupancy data, optimizing energy use and ensuring comfort throughout the complex." I gestured upwards, indicating the discreet grilles and sensors integrated seamlessly into the ceiling.

Adrien picked up the thread immediately, his voice a low, authoritative murmur that cut through the residual awkwardness. "The system learns traffic patterns over time," he explained to Johnson, his gaze fixed on the panels, not on either of us. "It can predict peak loads for specific zones and preemptively adjust. It’s not just climate control; it’s predictive environmental management."

Mr. Johnson seemed genuinely interested in this, thankfully distracted. He tilted his head back, squinting at the ceiling. "Predictive... fascinating. So, less wasted energy, happier tenants."

"Precisely," Adrien confirmed.

We moved on, through a meticulously designed retail wing, past empty storefronts waiting eagerly for their occupants.

Mr. Johnson paused beside the archway balcony, flashing another too-white smile. "Miss Miller," he said smoothly, "I don’t suppose you’d consider letting me steal you for dinner one of these days. Just professional talk, of course."

I opened my mouth—ready to reject politely but firmly.

But Adrien beat me to it.

He didn’t raise his voice.

Didn’t even look directly at Mr. Johnson.

"Unfortunately, Miss Miller is rarely free in the evenings. She tends to spend them with me."

There was a long silence.

Mr. Johnson gave a small laugh, clearly unsure how serious that had just gotten. "Right. Well, busy people, busy schedules. Entirely understandable."

Still trying to play it off.

But Adrien didn’t smile.

"She is my woman." He said calmly

That did it.

The air shifted. Not dramatically—but enough. Mr. Johnson’s smile faltered like a candle catching a gust of wind. He straightened, cleared his throat.

"Apologies, Walton. I didn’t realize—"

"You do now," Adrien said smoothly then moved the conversation forward like nothing had happened.

But Mr. Johnson didn’t flirt again.

And he definitely didn’t look at me the same way after that.

The source of this c𝐨ntent is fre𝒆w(e)bn(o)vel