Deadline, Redline, Matrimony

Chapter 4

The next morning, humiliation clung to me like static, the kind that shocks you every time you touch a doorknob.

I stood in front of the mirror, wrestling with my blouse as if it had made a pact with the universe to humiliate me further. Every button I fumbled reminded me of last night—the candle stand crash, the gasp, the stumble—

onto David.

No bra.

It would’ve been better if I’d just said hi to the floor and let it swallow me whole. But no—when there’s David in the picture, anything pitiful happening to me apparently comes with his witness stamp.

And that smug look on his face…

That image alone could keep me red-faced for the rest of my life.

I’ll explain, I told myself. I’ll tell them I thought there was a thief. That’s why I was there. Logical. Reasonable. Not pathetic at all.

Clipboard in hand — my flimsy shield of professionalism — I walked into the dining room.

Roslina was already there, sitting at the head of the long polished table like a queen holding court. Walking into that room, I felt like a peasant who’d missed rent for six months.

Her smirk wasn’t wide — just enough to say I remember yesterday.

I had this awful flash — her thinking I’d somehow “dirtied” her perfect son just by falling on him.

Oh god, what if she’s already planned revenge? What if she’s mixed something into my food — so she can deposit me quietly on some haunted patch of ground?

My brain spun further. Is Katrina still alive?

David sat across from her, coffee mug in hand. He looked casual, almost bored — until our eyes locked.

There it was.

Mischief.

That same shade from childhood, when he’d steal someone’s pencil and just… wait… for them to notice.

And under that mischief, a certain smugness about last night’s “incident.”

Roslina’s smirk softened into something polite — almost gentle — which somehow made it worse.

“Sit down, Ewa,” she said, her voice smooth as silk that could also strangle you if needed. “Breakfast first. We’ll discuss after.”

One bite and I’ll know if it’s my last, I thought grimly.

I obeyed, perching at the table like a nervous schoolgirl in the headmistress’s office.

I’ll say it when there’s a pause. Just explain. I thought there was a thief. That’s all.

I picked up a sandwich. Took a bite. Rehearsed.

Thief. I thought there was a thief.

The bread lodged halfway down my throat like cement. I choked, hand flying to my chest, coughing into my napkin.

It’s poisoned. My brain leapt straight to the worst.

From the corner of the table, a muffled laugh slipped out.

I didn’t have to look.

But I did.

David’s gaze was waiting, sharp and playful, that glint of mischief lighting his eyes.

That look.

The kind that says: I saw what happened. I will never let you forget it.

My chest tightened. Not from poison this time — but from the sting of embarrassment slapping me all over again.

I hissed at him in my thoughts, careful, almost respectful — fearing Roslina might somehow hear those too.

Don’t you dare. Don’t you even think about it.

But before I could drown in my own silent rage, Roslina’s voice sliced clean through.

“In two hours,” she said smoothly, “we’ll have our first meeting.”

The words landed like a stone in my stomach.

Two hours.

Two hours until I had to stand before her with my designs and my clipboard and pretend I hadn’t face-planted into her son in cartoon pajamas.

I pushed back my chair, muttered some excuse I wouldn’t remember later, and snatched up my clipboard.

I swerved around David without looking at him, my dignity clutched like a fragile vase.

But David, being David, didn’t make it easy.

I could feel his eyes on me as I walked away — almost like heat against my back. Amusement lingered in his stare, the kind that stripped me of any illusion of coolness.

Back in my room, my mind caught fire.

Not only did he not want me here — or so I kept convincing myself — but he’d seen me.

Seen me in my Hello Kitty pajamas. Seen me without my cool-girl armor.

Adding to that, my hands were already slick with sweat at the thought of showing my designs to Roslina.

What if they’re not up to her standard? What if she decides I’m not capable? What if she makes this project hell for me because I fell on her son?

Each thought came sharper than the last.

Twelve hours until my first site meeting — and I was already unraveling, tangled in David’s eyes, Roslina’s judgment, and my own relentless embarrassment.