wanted by the CEO

Chapter 3- Public Reveal

The day of the first public appearance arrived with the sort of crisp autumn air that made Naomi’s nerves tighten in ways she hadn’t expected. Her gallery coat was neatly pressed, her hair curled softly at the ends, and her heels clicked confidently against the marble floors of the venue. And yet, beneath the polished exterior, her pulse raced.

Adrian was already there when she arrived, standing near the entrance with that familiar poise—perfect suit, tie sharp as a blade, and that infuriatingly composed expression that made her stomach twist. His golden eyes found hers across the crowd, and in an instant, the world narrowed to just the two of them.

“Ready?” he asked, voice low, almost a purr that brushed across her senses without touching her lips.

Naomi squared her shoulders, forcing a smile. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

The event was a charity gala, glamorous and bustling. Cameras flashed, reporters chattered, and socialites flitted about in glittering gowns and tailored suits. Naomi felt every eye turn toward them when Adrian casually took her hand as they entered, the touch light but deliberate, commanding attention. Her breath hitched despite herself.

He leaned slightly closer as they approached the photographers. “Remember,” he murmured, just enough for her to hear, “act engaged, not uncomfortable.”

Naomi nodded, but the thrill of being so close—the warmth of his palm, the subtle scent of his cologne—made her fingers tingle. They posed for pictures, smiles in place, hands entwined, though every movement was charged with an unspoken electricity. She could feel the awareness in his gaze, the way it lingered on her, and a shiver ran down her spine.

Throughout the evening, Adrian was effortless in the public eye—charming, witty, protective—but every laugh, every glance, was tailored for the cameras and the socialites. And yet, when no one was looking, she caught those fleeting moments: the brush of his thumb against her hand, the tilt of his head toward her as he spoke, the brief, almost imperceptible inhale he gave when she leaned slightly closer to see a painting.

During a quiet lull near the gallery’s display, Naomi tried to steady herself. “You make this look easy,” she whispered.

Adrian’s lips curved in a near-smile. “Appearances are everything.” He let his hand rest lightly against her back for a fraction longer than necessary. “And you—” he paused, voice low, teasing—“make it impossible not to look at you.”

Heat flared through her chest, an intoxicating mix of frustration and desire. Naomi looked away, forcing a laugh. “I told you, no emotions.”

“Of course,” he said, though the glint in his eye betrayed him. “Just… pretend.”

The rest of the night passed in a blur of flashes, polite conversation, and staged intimacy. They held hands, whispered into each other’s ears, and laughed at jokes only they seemed to share—all carefully choreographed, yet each movement left Naomi’s heart hammering with anticipation. Every touch, every brush of his arm, felt heavier than it should, as though the simple act of proximity ignited a current she couldn’t control.

Then came the photograph that would change everything. A paparazzo caught them mid-laugh, heads bent toward each other, their closeness natural, magnetic. The camera captured the subtle tilt of Adrian’s chin toward her, the curl of Naomi’s lips as she looked up at him with a mixture of amusement and something far more vulnerable.

When the image went public, the world reacted instantly. Social media exploded with hashtags, comments, and speculation. #AlmostMine, #AdrianAndNaomi, #CoupleGoals. Naomi stared at her phone, breath caught, as thousands of notifications flooded in.

Adrian leaned close, his lips near her ear, and whispered with that calm, measured heat that made her pulse jump: “See? Told you pretending wouldn’t be easy.”

She could only bite her lip, heart racing, caught between indignation and… something she didn’t want to name. She had agreed to this arrangement for survival, for her gallery—but the pull of him, the undeniable electricity between them, was impossible to ignore.

As the gala wound down, Adrian guided her toward the exit, fingers brushing lightly against hers, each touch deliberate, teasing. The sensual tension between them was nearly unbearable, charged with restraint and longing. Naomi could feel the weight of his gaze on her back, the warmth of his body close enough to ignite every nerve ending, and she knew, without a doubt, that keeping her heart and her boundaries intact would be harder than she’d imagined.

Outside, the city lights glittered against the wet pavement. Adrian’s hand lingered near hers as they walked silently for a moment. Finally, he said, almost softly: “One month, Naomi. We survive this, and then… who knows?”

Her chest tightened, breath shallow. “One month,” she repeated, though a part of her wondered whether pretending was already too late.

And in that fleeting moment—side by side, hands so close yet barely touching—Naomi realized the danger wasn’t the public gaze, the cameras, or even the deal. The danger was Adrian himself.

The danger was how easily he made her heart betray her.