Not our choice

Chapter Three

Matilda's POV (continued)

He didn't knock. Didn't announce himself. Just stepped in like the room belonged to him—which, technically, it did.

Tall. Sharp jaw. Dark eyes that caught the monitor light and turned it cold. Hair a little too long for a Peterson heir, falling into his face like he couldn't be bothered to fix it. Black hoodie, dark jeans. No suit. No tie. Just quiet, coiled energy.

Alexander Peterson.

He froze when he saw me. Then his gaze narrowed.

"What are you doing here?"

His voice was low, clipped. The kind of tone people use when they're used to being obeyed without question.

"Cleaning," I said, keeping my voice even. I lifted my cloth slightly, like evidence. "Assigned shift. Light clean only.”

He glanced at the cart, then back at me. "This area is restricted. You shouldn't be touching anything."

"I haven't touched your toys," I replied. "Just dusting around them."

His jaw ticked. "Toys?"

I shrugged one shoulder. "Equipment. Whatever you call it."

He stepped closer—slow, deliberate. "You think this is a joke?"

"No. I think it's late, and I'm trying to finish so I can go home."

For a second, he just stared. Like he was trying to decide if I was insolent or stupid. Then he exhaled sharply through his nose.

"Get out."

I didn't move right away. Not because I wanted to fight, but because something about the way he said it—like I was beneath notice—lit a small, stubborn spark in my chest.

"I'm almost done," I said. "Two more minutes."

His eyes flashed. He stood there another long moment, fists clenched at his sides.

Finally, he exhaled sharply through his nose. “Two minutes. Then you’re gone.”

I held his gaze for one beat longer than I should have. Then I picked up my bucket, turned, and walked past him toward the door.

As I passed, I muttered—just loud enough for him to hear—"Arrogant much?"

The door clicked shut behind me.

I didn't look back.

Alexander's POV

I couldn't focus.

The track I'd been working on for three days sat unfinished on the screen—drums looping, vocals half-recorded. Every time I tried to lay down the next line, her voice cut through my head.

"Arrogant much?"

Two words. Quiet. Casual. But they'd landed like a slap.

I hated it.

Hated that a cleaner—in a uniform two sizes too big—had looked me in the eye and not flinched. Hated that she'd called my life's work "toys." Hated most of all that I'd stood there, stunned, instead of shutting her down properly.

Who the hell did she think she was?

I dragged a hand through my hair and hit play again. The beat thumped, but it felt hollow.

Jace texted: *You good? Lucy asking why you bailed last night.*

I typed back: *Busy. Tell her I'm working.*

I wasn't working. I was stewing.

And that made me angrier.

*************

Jace showed up at the penthouse around noon the next day, carrying two cold bottles of chapman like he knew I’d need something to cool off last night’s irritation.

He dropped onto the couch without asking, kicked off his shoes, and looked at me expectantly.

“So,” he started. “How’d it go with the mystery cleaner? You’ve been texting me cryptic s**t since 2 a.m.”

I stayed leaning against the kitchen island, arms crossed tight, jaw still tight from replaying it. “She’s infuriating. Walked in like the rules don’t apply to her, stared at my setup like it was a museum exhibit, then had the nerve to call me arrogant when I told her to get out. Snapped back like she had every right. Nobody talks to me like that. Not here. Not in my own damn space.”

Jace raised an eyebrow, fighting a smirk. “So… she got under your skin.”

“She pissed me off,” I corrected, sharper than I meant. “Made me feel like some spoiled kid throwing a tantrum about his toys. I hate that. I hate how calm she stayed while she threw it in my face. Like she’s seen worse than a rich guy with an attitude. Like I’m nothing special.”

He took a slow sip, watching me. “You sound… rattled.”

“I’m not rattled,” I snapped, then caught myself and exhaled hard through my nose.

“I’m annoyed. There’s a difference. I don’t even know why I keep thinking about it. About her. Standing there in that stupid uniform, chin up, eyes steady, not backing down an inch. It’s like she saw straight through the bullshit and called it out. And I hated every second of it.”

Jace’s smirk softened into something more curious. “But you’re still thinking about it.”

“Because it was disrespectful,” I said, but I even heard how thin it sounded. Truth was, the disrespect stung less than the fact that—for one stupid moment—she’d made everything feel… raw. Exposed. Like she’d peeled back the layer I kept locked down and didn’t even blink at what was underneath. And now I couldn’t unsee her face. Couldn’t unhear that quiet, unflinching tone.

I dragged a hand down my face. “I don’t like her. At all. I just… I don’t know what the hell that was. And I don’t want to know.”

Jace chuckled low. “Bro, denial looks bad on you.”

“Shut up.” I grabbed one of the chapmans from him and twisted the cap off harder than necessary. “What about you? What happened after I pulled the fake-call escape? House empty when you left?”

Jace’s grin faded a little. He took a long sip, then set the bottle down. “Yeah. She didn’t stay long. Maybe forty minutes? We talked—mostly about you. Every conversation circled back to ‘Alex this, Alex that.’ She kept saying how our parents might be matchmaking us, but she’s genuinely liked you since we were kids. Said you were the only one who ever made her laugh during those boring family dinners. She couldn’t even pretend to enjoy hanging with me when you weren’t there.

I rub my temple. "I don't want her, man. Never have. She's great—for you. You've been there, steady. I need her to see that."

She left early. Said she had a headache or something. It felt like a lost battle.”

I winced, the guilt familiar but distant right now. My head was still stuck on last night’s argument. “Damn. I’m sorry, man.”

“Don’t be.” He looked at me straight. “But you need to help me here. Tell her the truth—or at least nudge her toward seeing me. Put some pressure on. Make her realize I’m the one who’s actually been there, not just the best friend in the background.”

I studied him. “You want me to play wingman again? Or wingman opposite—make myself look like the asshole she can toss aside so she’ll turn to you?”

Jace groaned, throwing his head back. “Exactly. Ridicule me a little. Let her see I’m the safe, steady one. But don’t overdo it—I still have pride. Just… help me open the door. I can’t keep confessing to you and staying silent with her. I need to know if there’s even a chance before I make a fool of myself.”

I nodded slowly. “Alright. Next time we’re all in the same room—family thing, whatever—I’ll pull back. Be distant. Talk about music nonstop, act like the unreliable artist they all complain about. Give her space to see you. But Jace… if she still only wants the version of me that doesn’t exist, you gotta promise you’ll tell her how you feel. No more hiding.”

He met my eyes, serious. “Deal. And if she picks you anyway?”

“Then I’ll tell her no—gently.” I took a long pull from the bottle, the sweetness doing nothing for the sour knot in my chest.

“Because right now? I’ve got zero interest in anyone who looks at me like that. Especially not some cleaner who thinks she can talk to me like I’m beneath her.”

Jace raised his bottle anyway. “To chaos, then. And to figuring out whatever the hel

l is going on in your head.”

I clinked mine against his, but didn’t smile.

Chaos was right.

And I wanted no part of hers.