Fake Date, Real Fate-Chapter 128: The Haunting of Table Twelve [III]

My heart was still somewhere between my throat and the floor.

Adrien held me like it was nothing—like I hadn’t just burst into the restaurant barefoot, chanting gibberish and waving my arms like a cursed interpretive dancer.

His grip was firm, warm, and utterly unyielding. I could feel the solidness of his chest against mine, the beat of his heart ──or was that mine?── beneath my palm.

The faint scent of his cologne, usually so comforting, now seemed to mock me, mingling with the fabric on me and the lingering "ghostly" soundtrack still whispering from my pocket like a vengeful spirit with stage fright.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at me for a beat longer than strictly necessary, his expression unreadable as always... except for the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Why was he so calm?

Why wasn’t he screaming?

Why was I not vaporizing into mist?

"Are you..." His voice was low, warm against my ear. "...possessed?"

I made a strangled noise. "Temporarily?"

Behind him, I could feel the stunned silence. Aria, somewhere off to the side, whispering a panicked prayer under her breath. Cameron blinking like he couldn’t believe the show was real.

Adrien shifted me slightly, pulling back just enough to free one arm and reach behind me.

The chair I’d nearly face-planted into scraped softly as he pulled it out. Then, with surprising gentleness, he guided me down onto it. My veil, which had slipped from my face during the disaster of an entrance, now hung loosely at my shoulders. My face was on full display. Wonderful.

"I hate everything," I mumbled under my breath as I practically collapsed into it, still tangled in fabric, my cheeks burning.

He didn’t let go right away. His hand lingered on my wrist, warm and steady, like he wasn’t entirely convinced I wouldn’t tip out of the chair too. Or maybe I was imagining that part.

Then he released me, pulled up his own chair, and sat down beside me.

Composed. Cold. Regal.

Meanwhile, I was still internally screaming.

He crossed one leg over the other, adjusted the cuff of his jacket, then looked at the table like a principal about to question two very chaotic students.

Then, smoothly:

"Would either of you like to explain what the hell this is?"

As if on cue, the Bluetooth speaker in my pocket, as if offended it hadn’t been asked to perform again, let out a faint, ghostly whisper:

"The veil grows thin... the spirits are restless..."

I wanted to die.

"I meant to turn that off," I said.

"Of course."

I reached into my pocket and violently fumbled for the off switch. The speaker let out a whine like a dying phantom and cut off with a sad little pop.

"Now," he said, his voice the definition of executive calm, "Would someone like to explain the dramatics?"

Aria tugged off her own veil like she was emerging from battle. "We were trying to scare off my blind date," she said unapologetically.

Cameron looked deeply offended. "You tried to curse me."

"I didn’t know it was you," she snapped. "It was supposed to be a ’he runs screaming, I eat dessert alone’ kind of evening."

Adrien arched a brow. "And the ghost?"

Aria pointed at me like a dramatic lawyer in court. "She was my backup."

"Oh, thank you," I muttered under my breath.

Aria’s eyes narrowed, turning to Cameron. "Wait. Why did you bring him?" She pointed at Adrien. "Why is Adrien on your blind date?"

"I brought him to scare off my blind date too," Cameron replied, unfazed. "Figured no man alive would hit on me with him sitting across the table."

"WE WERE BOTH TRYING TO SABOTAGE EACH OTHER’S DATES?" Aria yelped, pointing at Cameron like this was a betrayal of Shakespearean proportions.

"I thought you were a cultist in a mourning gown!" Cameron protested, pointing at her outfit. "You literally screamed spells at me!"

"They weren’t spells," Aria hissed. "They were incantations!"

My head hit the table with a groan. "This is a disaster."

"Enough," Adrien said.

He stood up with smooth precision. The room stilled again.

And then—before I could blink—he bent down, scooped me into his arms like a rogue prince returning his cursed bride to the underworld, and straightened without effort.

"What are you—? Adrien!" I squirmed, shocked. "Put me down!"

He didn’t even flinch.

"To be clear," he said calmly to the room, "you two no longer need us."

"What are you doing!?" I hissed, flailing softly. "You can’t just—carry me out like a cryptid toddler—"

"Stop moving."

"Then put me down!" I hissed, wriggling.

"No."

"Adrien."

He looked at me, calm and maddening. "You entered barefoot, moaning about talismans. You lost the right to protest."

"Because I didn’t know you were here!"

"And now you do."

Then he turned.

And started walking. ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom

Past the chairs, past Aria’s open mouth, past Cameron’s dumbfounded blinking. The restaurant was silent except for the faint swish of chiffon and the shame dragging behind me like a second train.

Aria recovered first.

"Text me when you’re alive again!" she called. "And if you see any spirits, tell them I want my deposit back!"

"I am the spirit!" I shouted over Adrien’s shoulder.

Adrien didn’t even blink. "You certainly are."

As he carried me out of the dining room and into the dim hallway, the lights from the chandelier caught the shimmer of my cape and the muddy spots on the bottom of my gown from where I’d stepped in something awful near the curtain I was hiding.

"I look like a drowned banshee," I groaned. "Please don’t look at me."

He didn’t stop walking. "Too late."

"You’re going to break up with me," I muttered.

"Probably."

I smacked his arm. He didn’t flinch.

He reached the door. Nudged it open with one shoulder and stepped out into the cool night air.

Then he looked down at me, that infuriatingly calm, beautiful face finally softening just a little around the eyes.

"You looked ridiculous."

"I know."

He tilted his head.

"But also terrifyingly gorgeous."

I blinked up at him.

"What?"

His expression didn’t change.

"You were barefoot and chanting about cursed tea leaves," he said. "And you still looked like something out of a dream."

"...You’re not mad?" I asked.

"Oh, I’m furious," he said. "But mostly impressed."

The valet, a young man with wide eyes, looked from me (a dishevelled, barefoot cryptid in Adrien’s arms) to Adrien (looking like he’d just stepped out of a magazine) and back again. He fumbled with the keys. "Sir."

Adrien gave a curt nod. He maneuvered us to the passenger side, opened the door with an unnerving lack of effort, and then, with the same gentleness he’d used with the chair, placed me onto the buttery leather seat.

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