Lipstick, Lies, and a Dinner from Hell
1177 Words
~Ava~
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There are very few things in this world that make me feel like curling up inside a supply closet and screaming into a box of printer paper.
One of them?
Dinner with a room full of millionaires while fake-dating my emotionally repressed, sarcasm-powered, paralyzed boss.
And yet, there I was.
Wearing red.
A deep crimson dress hugged my body a little too well for a “professional dinner.” Which, in Adam Hart’s world, translated to make the board fall in love with you while I pretend to have emotions.
It wasn’t the kind of dress you wore to a work event.
It was the kind of dress that said I will kill you with my heels and look amazing while doing it.
Which, considering who I was attending with, felt fitting.
Adam’s penthouse driver dropped us off outside the private dining suite of one of those restaurants where you don’t get a menu — just trust the chef and pray the portions aren’t “artful” and disappointing.
I stepped out first, ignoring the way the air immediately turned cool against my skin.
Adam wheeled up behind me, looking... infuriatingly collected.
He wore a black dress shirt, sleeves rolled, top two buttons undone like he didn’t need to try. No tie. No coat. Just command. Confidence.
The man looked like money and control had a baby.
He gave me a once-over as I adjusted the strap of my dress.
“You clean up.”
I glared at him.
“That’s not a full compliment.”
“That’s all you’re getting until you stop clenching your jaw like you’re chewing gravel.”
“Gee, I wonder why I’m tense.”
His smirk was sharp.
“Could be the nerves. Could be the way you looked at my toothbrush this morning like you wanted to jam it in my eye.”
“That was not your toothbrush.”
“I labeled them.”
“With invisible ink?”
“I thought you’d use your brain.”
I stormed ahead of him before I could commit a felony.
Inside, the board members were already seated, laughing in that rich-people way where nothing is actually funny but everyone wants to sound like they enjoy each other’s company.
Wine glasses clinked. Polished conversation floated.
And then we arrived.
“Adam,” drawled one of the executives — a silver-haired man named Philip Crane, who had the charm of a friendly cobra. “And this must be Ava.”
I smiled, carefully.
“Hi, it’s lovely to finally meet everyone.”
Adam placed his hand on the small of my back like he’d done it a thousand times.
To anyone watching, we looked comfortable. Polished.
Fake as hell.
“You weren’t exaggerating,” one woman murmured, eyes skimming over me like I was a Prada bag Adam had picked out of pity. “She really does light up a room.”
“Sunshine,” Adam said smoothly.
I nearly elbowed him in the ribs.
He leaned over to whisper against my ear.
“You do that, and I’m telling them you proposed to me.”
The dinner started.
And by started, I mean I endured three hours of small talk while pretending I didn’t want to throw myself into the wine bucket centerpiece.
Everyone had questions. Everyone wanted details.
How did you two meet?
When did the spark start?
What was the first date like?
All lies. All rehearsed.
Adam answered like a politician.
“She spilled coffee on me. The rest is history.”
“She’s the only one who argues with me. I find it... grounding.”
“I knew when she threatened me with a letter opener.”
Laughter.
Interest.
Approval.
I was going to die.
Midway through dessert, Philip turned to me.
“So, Ava, tell me. What’s it like dating a man like Adam?”
I blinked.
“That’s a very broad question.”
He smirked. “We’re all friends here.”
I looked at Adam.
He raised a brow. Waiting. Daring.
I sipped my wine and smiled sweetly.
“Like trying to cuddle a shark in a three-piece suit.”
The table roared.
Adam’s eyes flicked to mine. A c***k in his expression. A twitch of something like surprise.
But then he leaned back, glass in hand.
“She’s not wrong,” he said.
When we finally left, I waited until the elevator doors closed behind us before speaking.
“Kill me. Now. Please. Make it quick.”
“You were perfect,” he said mildly.
“I nearly stabbed Philip with my dessert fork.”
“Board loved it.”
“Board loved me,” I snapped. “You were a robot with a jawline.”
“And you were an unstable cupcake. Somehow, it worked.”
I opened my mouth to reply but stopped.
His jaw was clenched.
Not with annoyance.
With something else.
I followed his gaze and realized he was staring at his hands.
They were clenched tightly in his lap.
He noticed me watching and turned away.
“I hate these things,” he muttered.
“What things?”
“Charades. Dancing around questions. Pretending like this is normal.”
His voice was lower now. Different.
I didn’t know what to say.
So I said nothing.
We reached the penthouse.
I kicked off my heels and headed straight for the kitchen, yanking open the fridge.
“Wine?”
“No.”
“Whiskey?”
“God, yes.”
I poured us both a glass.
He rolled in beside me, silence stretching between us.
“Do you regret this?” I asked finally.
“The fake dating thing?”
I nodded.
He didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he took a slow sip.
Then:
“No. But I do regret that I have to convince people I’m worth keeping in charge only if I’m smiling beside a pretty woman.”
My heart thudded.
Not because of the compliment.
But because it wasn’t a compliment. It was a confession.
I looked at him then. Really looked.
And for a brief second, the armor cracked.
“You are worth it,” I said quietly.
He looked at me.
And just as quickly, the c***k disappeared.
“Don’t go getting soft on me, sunshine.”
I snorted and stood.
“There it is.”
“There what is?”
“Your defense mechanism.”
He tilted his head. “And yours is sarcasm.”
“And yours is being emotionally constipated.”
“I’m perfectly regular, thank you.”
We stared at each other.
And something flickered.
I stepped back.
“I’m going to bed.”
“Same.”
“You don’t sleep.”
“I don’t sleep well.”
I started down the hall.
His voice followed me.
“Ava.”
I turned.
He was watching me again. That unreadable look.
“Don’t wear red again,” he said.
I blinked.
“Why not?”
He didn’t answer.
Just turned and rolled toward his room.
And this time, I was the one left breathless.
- Writer
