Chapter 4
1763 Words
Peter POV
'Car downstairs at 8. Wear something red. —P'
I stared at the message for twelve seconds before hitting send.
Twelve seconds of doubt. Twelve seconds of wondering if I'd lost my mind.
Then I sent it.
At 7:48, I was dressed. Charcoal suit. White shirt. No tie—I wanted approachable, not intimidating.
At 8:00, I was pacing.
At 8:15, the elevator chimed.
I opened the door.
And forgot how to breathe.
She stood in the hallway in red. Not just red—the red. A dress that curved where she curved and fell perfectly. Her dark hair was down, softer than I'd ever seen it. Her amber eyes were wide, uncertain, beautiful.
She looked like everything I'd never allowed myself to want.
My gaze moved over her before I could stop it. Something hot flickered in my chest before I forced the familiar mask back into place.
"Good," I said. "You follow directions."
A flicker of amusement crossed her face. "Was that in doubt?"
"Everything's in doubt until it happens." I stepped aside. "Come in. We have two hours."
She passed me, and the scent of her—something floral and warm—hit harder than expected.
"Nice place," she said. "Very homey."
I almost smiled. "Sarcasm. Noted."
"Just an observation."
I led her to the kitchen. She sat at the island while I made tea—black, one sugar, splash of milk. The way I'd watched her take it every morning for the last three months.
She noticed.
"You know how I take my tea."
"I know a lot of things about you."
The words came out rougher than intended. She looked at me sharply, so I focused on sliding the cup toward her.
"We have two hours before the board meeting," I said, sitting across from her with my coffee. "We need to get our story straight."
"Story?"
"Our history. How we met. When we fell in love." My voice stayed businesslike. "The press will dig. My family will dig harder. Every detail has to match."
She wrapped her hands around the cup. "Okay. Tell me our story."
I leaned back.
"We met at a design conference six months ago. Chicago. You were presenting a panel on sustainable materials. I was in the audience."
"I was presenting?"
"You were brilliant. I introduced myself afterward. We talked for hours."
"About what?"
"Design. Architecture. Your work. My building projects. We kept in touch quietly. I didn't want the press involved."
"Why quiet?"
"Because I'm a private person. Because I wanted you for myself, not for the cameras."
Her eyes softened slightly. Enough to tighten something in my chest.
"What was my favorite part of the conference?"
Testing me.
"The keynote on biomimicry. You said it changed how you thought about facade design."
Surprise flickered across her face.
She didn't know I'd studied every interview she'd ever given, watched every talk, memorized the details she thought no one noticed.
"When did you first know?" she asked.
"Know what?"
"That you wanted to marry me."
The question landed somewhere unsteady in my chest. I'd planned an answer. The prepared version felt wrong.
"Three months in," I said. "You'd had a bad day… a client rejected your designs, and you were frustrated. You called me, and we talked for two hours about nothing. And I realized I didn't want to hang up."
She stared at me.
"That's specific," she said quietly.
"It's true."
The words lingered between us.
"What was my favorite flower?"
"White roses."
I answered instantly.
"How do you know that?"
"Because there are three vases of them in your office every week. Because you always touch the petals when you think no one's watching. Because when I leave one on your desk, you smile before you catch yourself."
Her breath caught.
"That's not part of the story," she whispered.
"No," I agreed. "It's not."
Two hours later, we had a story detailed enough to feel real.
First date: a tiny Italian restaurant in Brooklyn—one I'd actually taken her to for a working dinner, though in our version it was romantic. First kiss: on a rooftop under the stars. The moment I knew: the night she fell asleep on the phone while we talked, and I listened to her breathe before hanging up.
Every detail was precise.
Too precise.
I wasn't sure anymore where the performance ended and I began.
"Ready?" I asked.
"No."
Something in my chest loosened. "Good. Neither am I."
She took my arm, her hand settling into the crook of my elbow like it belonged there.
We walked into the fire together.
The boardroom was a killing floor.
Twenty people sat around the table. More lined the walls—lawyers, assistants, predators in tailored suits.
At the head of the table sat my uncle.
Victor.
Same silver-blue eyes as mine. Same blood. Nothing else in common. Where I built, he destroyed. Where I protected, he exploited. He'd wanted control of Kavinsky International since my father died. The board choosing me had never sat well with him.
Now he watched Lara-Jean like a weakness he intended to use.
My hand settled at the small of her back as we entered. Possessive. Protective. Natural.
"Gentlemen. Ladies." My voice carried easily. "Thank you for coming on short notice. I have an announcement."
Silence fell.
"I'm engaged."
The reaction rippled through the room—surprise, calculation. Victor's expression went blank, which meant fury.
"To Ms. Lara-Jean Song," I continued. "Some of you know her work. The Watanabe campaign. The sustainable housing initiative. She's been instrumental in our recent successes."
"And now she'll be instrumental in your personal life as well?" Victor's voice was silk over acid. "How convenient."
My hand pressed more firmly against her back.
"We've been together for six months," I said. "We kept it quiet to protect our privacy. Given recent... developments, we decided to announce now."
"Recent developments." Victor's gaze slid to her. "You mean the rumors about Ms. Song's rather colorful past. The ex-fiancé. The aunt with stories to sell. The sudden rise from homelessness to your corner office."
The room went still.
I felt anger rising, ready to respond—but Lara-Jean touched my arm.
Light. Brief.
A warning.
Then she smiled at Victor.
"You've done your research. I'm impressed."
Victor's eyes narrowed.
"Let me help fill in the gaps," she continued, her voice sweet as poisoned honey. "My ex-fiancé emptied our joint account after I caught him cheating with his secretary. My aunt stole my inheritance after my parents died. And I spent a month living in my car because the people who claimed to love me left me with nothing."
Silence.
"I've survived worse than rumors, Mr. Kavinsky. I've survived people like you my whole life." She tilted her head, still smiling. "The difference is, now I have Peter. And Peter doesn't lose."
Victor turned purple.
And I laughed.
It burst out of me before I could stop it—real, surprised. The sound made the room stare.
"Darling," I said loudly, "I think you just made my year."
I leaned down and kissed her temple.
Her skin was warm. She smelled like flowers. My heart hit my ribs.
When I pulled back, her eyes met mine—wide, startled, something deeper flickering there.
Victor was furious. The board stunned.
But when her hand found mine under the table, one thing became clear.
I would burn this company to the ground before I let Victor touch her.
The photoshoot.
Private dining room. Exclusive restaurant. Photographer treating us like props. Publicists hovering with tablets. Champagne untouched.
"Hand on his chest. Yes. Gaze into his eyes. Perfect. Now laugh like he just told you something funny."
She laughed. I looked at her. The camera clicked.
Looking at her like she was the only woman in the world wasn't difficult.
That was the problem.
"Closer. Shoulders touching. Look at her like you mean it."
I looked at her like I meant it.
Because I did.
"Now a kiss. Just a peck. Something romantic for the engagement spread."
Her heart stopped—I saw it in her eyes. My jaw tightened.
Then I really looked at her. The woman who had saved a stranger in an alley. Pressed her scarf to my wound. Spent her last money on a room for someone else.
"May I?" I asked quietly.
Quiet enough that only she could hear.
This is your choice.
She nodded, barely breathing.
I leaned in.
Her lips were soft. Warm. The kiss lasted less than a second.
My entire world caught fire.
The camera clicked.
I pulled back, breathing unevenly. Hers matched.
"Perfect," the photographer said. "Now just a few more..."
"No." My voice came out rough. "We're done for the day."
I took her hand and led her out.
Past the publicists.
Into the private elevator.
Neither of us spoke on the way down.
Neither of us let go.
That night, alone in my penthouse, I opened the email from the publicist.
Proofs from the shoot.
Twenty photos.
I clicked through them slowly.
In every photo, Lara-Jean looked at me like I was the sun.
In every photo, I looked at her like she was the only woman in the world.
It's acting, I told myself.
Then I reached the kiss photo.
The camera had caught it from the side. Her profile clear. My lips on hers.
My eyes were closed.
My expression wasn't controlled or calculated.
It was open. Real.
Like kissing her meant something.
Like she meant something.
I closed the laptop and pressed a hand to my chest, where my heart was beating too fast.
One year. I had to survive one year pretending to be in love with a woman I was dangerously close to actually loving.
And judging by that photo, I wasn't the only one in danger.
I picked up my phone.
'You were magnificent today.'
Three dots appeared immediately.
'So were you.'
I stared at the screen.
'The red dress was a good choice.'
'You told me to wear red.'
'I know. I didn't expect it to affect me.'
A pause.
'Affect you how?'
I typed. Deleted. Typed again.
Finally: 'Goodnight, Lara-Jean.'
I set the phone down and walked to the window.
For fifteen years I'd built empires and crushed enemies without fear.
Tonight was different.
For the first time in my life, I wanted something I couldn't control.
I wanted her.
And wanting her might destroy us both.
My phone buzzed.
'Goodnight, Peter. Sweet dreams.'
I closed my eyes.
I was already having them.
- Writer
