CHAPTER 02 — THE MAN WHO DOESN’T DO “PRETEND”
1686 Words
Warm air hit Elara like a wall.
Leather. Smoke. Whiskey.
And music that sounded like it had been drinking since noon.
The bar wasn’t crowded, but the people inside looked like they had
enough stories to fill ten winters. Elara didn’t want stories—she wanted
a hot drink, two hours of silence, and maybe a place where her chest
didn’t feel like it was collapsing.
She stepped toward the counter.
That was when she saw him.
The man sitting alone at the far corner—broad shoulders under a black
jacket, tattoos peeking from his throat, one ring glinting on his thumb
as he turned a glass of bourbon slowly. Not carelessly. Almost… like he
was thinking how fast he could break it.
His eyes lifted.
Cold blue. Sharp. Dangerous enough to make the world slow.
Elara looked away so quickly she almost tripped.
Great. Perfect. Exactly what she needed—another reminder that she had
the emotional range of a damp sock. She just got dumped. She didn’t need
to be noticing a stranger who looked like he collected secrets for a
living.
She sat two stools away from him.
“Hot cider, please,” she told the bartender, voice small.
A beat of silence. Then a low voice—not the bartender’s.
“You don’t look like someone who drinks cider.”
Elara froze.
The man with the tattoos was looking at her now, glass still in his
hand, attention fixed like she had walked into his night without
permission.
She swallowed. “Excuse me?”
He lifted a brow. “Cider. Too sweet. Too safe.”
“I like safe,” she said, defensive. “Safe is reliable.”
“Safe,” he echoed, voice dropping, “is what people say right before
their life falls apart.”
Her breath caught.
She didn’t know him. He didn’t know her.
But somehow, he hit the exact bruise she was desperately hiding.
“Let me guess,” he continued quietly. “You got bad news tonight.”
Her fingers tightened on her scarf. “How would you know?”
He tapped his thumb against his whiskey glass. “You walked in like the
world ended, but your eyeliner is still perfect. Means the crying
hasn’t started yet.”
Elara’s heart did a weird flip.
“Don’t worry,” he added, gaze narrowing, “I only observe. I don’t pry.”
She doubted that. This man *read* for a living. People. Spaces.
Weaknesses.
“What’s your name?” she asked, because silence suddenly felt too loud.
“Jace.”
Just Jace. No last name. No warm smile. Just that voice—smooth but edged
with danger.
She nodded. “Elara.”
His gaze flicked to her mouth for exactly one second. It was nothing.
It was everything.
Her pulse stuttered.
“Rough night?” he asked.
“Something like that.”
He hummed—a sound that told her he already knew more than she said.
Her drink arrived. She wrapped her hands around it like a lifeline.
Jace watched her take a sip, eyes tracking the movement, and something
about the way he looked at her made heat crawl up her neck.
“Careful,” he murmured. “Men will misunderstand if you keep looking like
that.”
“Looking like what?”
“Like you need someone to ruin your bad night properly.”
She choked on her drink.
Jace didn’t blink. Didn’t apologize.
He just leaned back, elbows on the bar, studying her like she was a
problem he was curious to solve.
“Relax,” he said. “If I meant it, you’d know.”
“Oh? And how exactly would I know?”
He smirked—slow, deliberate. “I’d be a lot closer to you.”
Her breath stopped entirely.
Why was every part of her reacting like he was touching her already?
“Elara Hart?”
She stiffened. Her heart dropped.
Her coworker—Paula—stood at the entrance, coat half-buttoned, phone in
hand. Perfect timing from a universe that hated her.
“Elara! I’ve been calling! The partners need confirmation. Are you still
bringing your fiancé to the Christmas gala?”
Elara’s soul flew out of her body.
Her eyes widened. “Paula—what—now’s not really—”
“Yes or no? They need the final guest list today. You told them your
fiancé was flying in tonight!”
Jace looked at her.
Slowly.
Like he was connecting dots she never intended to show anyone.
Fiancé.
Fake.
Lie.
Her lungs stopped working.
Paula tapped her foot. “Elara, answer. Are you bringing him or not?”
Elara opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Jace spoke.
“Yes,” he said, voice smooth as sin. “She is.”
Paula blinked. “Oh—um—sorry, who are you?”
“Jace Wolfe,” he said without hesitation. “Elara’s fiancé.”
Her heart *detonated* inside her.
Paula’s jaw dropped. “Oh! Wow! You’re—um—exactly not what I pictured,
but good for you, Elara. I’ll confirm with the partners.”
She left.
Silence crashed over the bar.
Elara turned slowly to him. “Why did you—why would you—?”
“You needed it,” Jace said simply.
“No, I—I didn’t ask—”
“But you wanted me to,” he murmured. “The second she said ‘fiancé,’ you
looked at me like I was your only exit.”
Her mouth opened, then closed again.
“You did well, sweetheart,” he added softly. “Didn’t even flinch when I
said it.”
Sweetheart.
She definitely forgot how breathing worked.
“Jace,” she whispered, “you can’t just—”
“Too late,” he cut in. “We’re engaged now.”
“That’s—not how this works!”
“It is tonight.”
Her pulse hammered violently. “What do you want?”
His eyes darkened in a way that sent heat through her entire body.
“Dinner,” he said.
“Dinner?”
“With you.” He stood, towering over her. “You owe me that much for
saving you.”
“I didn’t ask you to save—”
“Elara.”
Her name in his voice erased half her vocabulary.
“I don’t do pretend,” he said quietly. “So if we’re doing this, we’re
doing it my way.”
“My way” sounded dangerous. It also sounded like the first thing that
made her feel alive after weeks of numbness.
She swallowed hard. “And what exactly is your way?”
He stepped close—close enough that her knees nearly buckled.
His breath ghosted her cheek.
“I take the lead,” he whispered. “You follow.”
Her heart slammed.
Too loud. Too fast.
“And if I say no?” she breathed.
He smiled—slow, wicked, confident.
Like the kind of man who never heard that word unless he wanted to.
“Then,” he murmured, brushing past her, “you wouldn’t be standing up to
follow me right now.”
Elara blinked—
Realizing she *was* standing.
And Jace was already walking toward the door.
He didn’t look back.
He didn’t need to.
Her feet moved anyway.
…Elara blinked—
Realizing she *was* standing.
And Jace was already walking toward the door.
He didn’t look back.
He didn’t need to.
Her feet moved anyway.
The cold air outside punched her cheeks as soon as she stepped out, but
Jace didn’t slow. His stride was confident, controlled, the kind that
belonged to a man who expected the world to move around *him*, not the
other way.
“Wait—” she managed.
He stopped.
Just stopped.
Not turning around. Not speaking.
Snow drifted between them, soft and fragile—nothing like the tension
stretching the space they shared.
Elara swallowed and stepped closer. “You didn’t have to do that back
there.”
“No,” he said, still not looking at her. “But you needed someone to.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“It means,” he cut in, finally turning his head, eyes catching hers like
a snare, “you’re not walking into that gala alone.”
Her breath hitched.
“You don’t know me,” she whispered. “You don’t know anything about me.”
Jace stepped toward her—slow, unhurried, deliberate.
Like he was approaching a skittish animal… or claiming something he’d
already decided was his.
He stopped just close enough for her to feel the heat from his body.
“I know enough,” he murmured.
Her voice trembled. “Like what?”
“That you lie politely when you’re scared. That you bite your lip when
you’re trying not to cry. And that you hate asking for help more than
you hate the cold.”
Her mouth parted.
Jace’s gaze dipped. Just for a second.
“And I know,” he added softly, “that when I said ‘fiancé,’ your pulse
jumped.”
Her cheeks burned. “You… noticed that?”
“I notice everything.”
She didn’t know whether to step back or closer.
Jace made that choice for her—he reached up and gently brushed a snowflake from her cheek with his thumb.
The touch was nothing.
And it was absolutely everything.
Elara’s knees weakened.
“You’re trembling,” he said.
“It’s cold,” she lied.
“No,” he murmured, thumb lingering just a second too long, “it’s not.”
The air thickened. Heavy. Electric.
Jace’s hand dropped, but the ghost of his touch stayed, burning under
her skin.
“Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s get out of the cold.”
“Where… are we going?”
He gave her that slow, dangerous half-smile.
“Dinner. My way.”
She knew she should say no.
She knew she should run in the opposite direction.
But instead—
Her feet followed him again.
Just like he knew they would.
- Writer
