Dating The Hot Tycoon

Chapter Nine

The door shut behind Claire with a soft click, but the sound echoed in her chest like a dropped glass.

She stood in the apartment’s entryway for a long moment, holding her breath.

Only once she heard the soft hum of the city outside, horns, footsteps, the distant bark of a dog—did she exhale and let her shoulders slump.

Her heels were off before she made it to the kitchen. One hand reached for a glass, the other for the half-empty bottle of red she’d opened a week ago and hadn’t touched since. The cork was stiff, the wine a little sharp, but she poured anyway. The taste didn’t matter. The ritual did.

Fake date.

Pretend romance.

Dinner with a man she once dreamed about.

Claire downed the first sip and immediately poured another.

Alex had looked the same—and completely different.

The lines on his face had deepened, but they didn’t age him. If anything, they sharpened what was already sculpted: jawline like justice, eyes like judgment, and the kind of presence that made a room hold its breath.

She hated that she noticed. Hated more that part of her wanted to notice.

Claire leaned against the counter, wine glass cool against her palm, replaying everything in reverse.

The way he held her gaze too long when her parents weren’t looking.

The brush of his fingers at the table when he reached for a napkin and didn’t immediately pull away.

The faintest curve of his mouth when she said something dry and cutting—and he caught the humor under it.

And worst of all: the moment they agreed to keep pretending.

It was her idea, technically.

He just agreed too easily.

Like he was already a few steps ahead.

“i***t,” she muttered to herself. “This is how you get your heart scraped out again.”

Not that she was in danger of falling back into that mess. Not anymore. She was older. Smarter. Well-armored.

But the truth was—it hurt to be near him. Not just because of the past, but because of what he still represented. All the things she once thought she wanted.

Ambition. Status. Approval.

And maybe if she was honest with herself a little bit of love.

A buzz broke the silence. Her phone.A text from her other best friend Leah, Mia was put of town and busy.

[Leah]: Still alive or did your date murder you with steak knives?

Claire huffed a laugh.

[Claire]: Alive. Slightly tipsy. No steak knives involved.

[Leah]: Deets. Now. Or I swear I’m calling the FBI.

Claire hesitated. Then typed:

(Claire]: It was Alex.

[Leah]: ALEX? Boss Alex?? Your old boss Alex??? The one with the jawline that could cut glass and the soul of a cynical panther???

[Claire]: One and the same. Apparently his parents set him up too. We’re both pretending to date each other so they leave us alone.

[Leah]: Girl. Are you in a romantic comedy or a psychological thriller??

[Claire]: Both. With a splash of regret.

The typing bubble appeared immediately.

[Leah]: Okay. Okay. Take a breath. Eat some bread. Then tell me everything tomorrow. My lunch break is officially reserved. Don’t ghost me or I’ll show up at your door with a boombox and bad intentions.

Claire smiled in spite of herself.

[Claire]: Deal.

She set the phone down and took another sip of wine, slower this time. She didn’t want to think about Alex anymore tonight.

Which meant she would, of course.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the cabinet behind her.

In the quiet, she could almost hear his voice again.

“We’ll keep it simple.”

“One dinner. One lie. That’s all it has to be.”

But Claire had never been good at lying to herself.

Especially when it came to him.

Claire pushed open the door to the café with her scarf twisted high around her neck and sunglasses tucked into her collar, even though it was cloudy. She spotted Leah immediately, tucked into a corner booth like a gossip columnist waiting to strike.

“I ordered fries and emotional support coffee,” Leah said, gesturing with her latte like it was holy water. “Talk.”

Claire slid in across from her and exhaled. “No hello? No how are you? Just straight to the crime scene?”

“It’s not every day your ex-boss becomes your fake boyfriend,” Leah said, lowering her voice. “Also, I knew you had a thing for him back then. Don’t lie.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t,” Claire muttered. “But it was over the second I realized it couldn’t go anywhere.”

“Because he was your boss? Or because he never looked at you the way you looked at him?”

Claire blinked. The truth hurt more than she wanted it to.

“I left because I knew if I stayed, I’d lose sight of who I was.”

Leah leaned back, letting that hang in the air. “So now what? You fake date until your parents stop matchmaking, and then what? You both walk away again like nothing ever happened?”

“That’s the plan.”

“And how do you feel about that plan?”

Claire picked up a fry. “Like I need salt and a therapist.”

Leah didn’t smile. “Claire. Be honest. Seeing him again—it shook you.”

“Of course it did. He’s Alex.”

“No,” Leah said, tapping her nail against the table. “It’s not just that. You never really stopped thinking about him.”

Claire looked away, but it didn’t matter. Leah saw through her like always.

She dropped her voice. “I thought I had moved on. But then I saw him, and God, Leah. It was like walking back into a room I swore I’d locked. Everything was there. The way he looks at me when no one’s watching. The way he listens when I talk. Like I’m not just background noise.”

“That sounds… like more than fake dating.”

Claire’s fingers curled around her coffee mug. “He’s still him, though. Controlled. Distant. Sharp around the edges. And I know better. I do. But I can’t tell if what I’m feeling is real, or if I’m just lonely.”

Leah leaned forward, voice gentler now. “Claire, you can be lonely and still want something real. They’re not mutually exclusive.”

Claire swallowed hard. “I just don’t want to be the only one feeling it.”

“You won’t know until you stop pretending it’s nothing.”

Claire gave a bitter laugh. “The irony. We’re faking being a couple, but I’m the one struggling to remember it’s not real.”

“Maybe it isn’t fake for either of you,” Leah said. “Maybe he’s just as lost in it as you are—but he’s better at hiding it.”

Claire stared out the window for a long moment.

The world moved on.

People walked by with coffee cups, kids skipped along the sidewalk, a couple held hands and laughed at something private. Normalcy.

“I should go,” she said. “He wants to meet again tomorrow. Go over ‘our story’—make sure the details match.”

Leah snorted. “The story where you accidentally fall back in love?”

Claire didn’t answer.

Because she wasn’t sure if it was a joke anymore.

Leah plucked the last fry from the basket and pointed it at Claire like a wand. “Okay. You need to hit a reset button.”

Claire raised an eyebrow, sipping the last of her latte. “You mean therapy?”

“No,” Leah said, grinning. “I mean skirts, music, and men who know how to compliment a woman without a three-paragraph disclaimer.”

Claire groaned. “Please don’t try to drag me to another club with neon floors and bathrooms that smell like heartbreak.”

“This one’s different,” Leah said, leaning in conspiratorially. “It’s a rooftop bar, live music, decent cocktails, and the last time I was there, I had a ten-minute conversation with a guy who quoted Jane Austen.”

Claire blinked. “And you didn’t marry him on the spot?”

“He had a man bun. We all make sacrifices.”

A laugh slipped from Claire before she could stop it.

“Come on,” Leah said, softening. “You’ve been trapped in your own head for days. You need to let it out. Or at least distract yourself with bad decisions that involve sparkly eyeliner and strangers who call you beautiful.”

Claire hesitated.

A quiet corner of her brain whispered Alex. His voice. The heat of his gaze at the dinner table. The phantom feeling of his hand brushing hers.

She needed to shut that voice down.

“Fine,” she said, already regretting it. “But if I get a blister from dancing, you’re buying me new shoes.”

“Deal,” Leah said, triumphant. “And I’m sending a selfie to your parents. Proof you’re alive and not sulking over old bosses.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t sulking.”

“You were *emotionally processing*. With wine. Same thing.”

They left the café just as the sun broke through the clouds, and for a second, Claire felt something close to relief. Not happiness, exactly. But the sense that maybe she hadn’t completely surrendered to the mess yet.

---

Later that night, Claire stood in front of her closet with a towel wrapped around her and three dresses strewn across the bed. She chewed her lip, staring at her options like one of them held a secret.

Leah was already on her way. No turning back now.

She picked the red dress. Not the sleek, perfect one that looked like it belonged on a magazine cover. The short, soft one that hugged her waist and showed just enough shoulder to make her feel brave.

Claire rarely dressed to be noticed. But tonight wasn’t about hiding.

Tonight was about *forgetting*.

When Leah arrived—leather jacket, black eyeliner, and a grin wide enough to break glass—she gave Claire a slow whistle.

“Oh, we are definitely getting you into trouble tonight.”

“Not too much trouble,” Claire warned.

Leah winked. “No promises.”

---

The rooftop bar was alive with music and golden light. Fairy lights curled around tall heaters, couples swayed to soft jazz with an edge of something electric, and the skyline glittered like a spilled jewelry box.

Claire sipped her first cocktail slowly. Something citrusy with a sugared rim.

Leah danced. Of course she did. She was half magic and full confidence on the floor, spinning between strangers like she was born there.

Claire stood at the edge, watching, swaying gently, letting the rhythm creep into her bones.

A man approached—smile warm, hair tousled, sleeves rolled up like he was ready to write poetry or argue about wine.

“Dance?” he asked.

She hesitated. Then nodded.

One song became two. Then three.

He was charming, easy to talk to, and didn’t flinch when she told him she was faking a relationship with her ex-boss.

He laughed. “You sound like a novel.”

“Feels more like a disaster movie.”

“You’re too calm for a disaster movie.”

Claire smiled, and for a moment, she forgot. Forgot the weight of Alex’s voice. Forgot the way she used to feel like a ghost in her own life.

She was here, Breathing. Laughing.

When she and Leah finally collapsed into a booth near midnight, cheeks flushed and heels in their hands, Claire looked at her friend with something like gratitude.

“I needed this,” she said.

Leah nudged her. “Told you.”

Then her expression shifted.

“Claire,” she said carefully. “If it ever stops feeling like pretend with him—promise me you’ll say something.”

Claire looked away, suddenly tired.

“I don’t know if it ever started as pretend.”

And for the first time, she admitted it out loud.

The rooftop buzzed with a pulse that felt alive. Somewhere between the bass thrum of the speakers and the breeze that carried the scent of night jasmine, Claire began to remember who she was outside of obligations, expectations, and carefully constructed lies.

Leah handed her another drink—something pale pink and effervescent. “It’s called a Flirtini. You’re legally required to enjoy it.”

Claire laughed and took a sip. “Tastes like a giggle in a glass.”

They were two drinks past careful, one step into tipsy, and miles away from everything real.

A new beat pulsed through the speakers funky, fast, addictive.

Leah pulled Claire back onto the dance floor, and this time Claire didn’t hesitate. She moved with the music, hair whipping, laughter rising, and a part of her heart cracked open and spilled light.

Men flirted. Women complimented her dress. She danced with strangers who twirled her, dipped her, and called her radiant.

And for once, she felt radiant.

Not like someone pretending. Not like someone playing catch-up to a version of herself she never thought she could be.

Here, she was loud. Free. Messy.

And no one cared.

Leah yelled over the music, “I swear to God if you go back to faking anything after tonight, I’m staging an intervention—with glitter and emotional manipulation!”

Claire grinned, breathless. “I’ll let you know when the act ends.”

They spun and swayed and screamed along to 2000s hits they hadn’t heard since college. Sweat and perfume, light and color—it all blurred into one chaotic swirl of now.

Then the music softened, dipping into something smoother.

Claire stumbled toward the railing of the rooftop, breath catching in her throat, the city stretching out before her in warm golden layers.

She leaned forward, elbows on the railing, drink dangling from one hand.

And suddenly, Alex was there, not literally, but in the back of her mind.

His voice. The shape of it.

His quiet amusement when she got passionate about films. His eyes during that dinner so unreadable, and yet so aware of her.

She closed her eyes.

“Get out of my head,” she whispered.

“Talking to your drink?” Leah slid up beside her, holding two glasses of water. “Or someone more metaphorical?”

Claire accepted the water and smiled faintly. “He won’t leave.”

“Who? Tall, dark, and emotionally constipated?”

Claire nearly choked on her water laughing. “Don’t call him that.”

“Why not? It’s accurate.”

Claire turned to look at her. “Do you ever think… you’ve already used up your one shot at something real? Like, maybe I had it. With him. And now it’s gone.”

Leah’s smile dropped. “Claire. You left for you. Not because it wasn’t real.”

“But what if I ran away from something I should’ve fought for?”

“You didn’t run,” Leah said, fierce now. “You chose self-worth. That’s not weakness. That’s courage.”

Claire’s throat tightened.

“I still want to believe I made the right choice,” she whispered.

“You did,” Leah said. “And if there’s anything left worth fighting for, he needs to meet you halfway this time.”

They stood there quietly for a moment, city lights flickering like silent applause.

Then Leah straightened. “Come on. Let’s close this place down.”

Claire blinked. “You’re not tired?”

“Are you?”

Claire grinned. “Not even close.”

Back inside, the music surged again—electric, irresistible. The floor was wilder now, people letting go of politeness and letting rhythm rule.

Claire danced like the night wouldn’t end.

And for the first time in weeks, she didn’t think about what tomorrow looked like with Alex. She didn’t plan the next fake date. She didn’t calculate smiles or memorize lines.

She just lived.

And if her mind wandered back to Alex’s hands, his laugh, his eyes watching her like she was a puzzle he never quite solved… well, she forgave herself for that.

Even in the escape, even in this wild rebellion of neon and music—his shadow followed.

But tonight, she danced around it.