Meant To Be

Chapter 9 - Away From The Noise

The invitation—or rather, the command—came in the form of a short text from Adrian.

Pack a bag. Be ready by eight. I’ll send a car.

Elena stared at her phone, jaw tightening. “He’s insane,” she muttered.

Across the café counter, Lila raised an eyebrow. “What’s insane this time? The fact that you’re fake dating a billionaire, or that he’s bossy about it?”

Elena held up the phone. “Both.”

Lila read the text, whistled, then smirked. “Girl. That’s not insanity. That’s foreplay.”

“Lila!” Elena hissed, but her cheeks heated anyway.

Still, when the sleek black car pulled up exactly at eight, Elena was waiting with her weekender bag in hand.

She told herself she was only going because disappearing from the city was logical. The paparazzi had been relentless since the exhibition, camping outside her café like wolves. She hadn’t had a moment’s peace. If Adrian wanted to whisk her away for a few days, well, she was simply…going along with the plan.

That was all.

The ride took them out of the city, through winding roads, and finally up to a secluded villa perched above the sea. White walls, terracotta roof, sprawling gardens that smelled of lavender and salt air—it was the kind of place people went to fall in love.

Which was, of course, not happening here.

At least, that’s what Elena told herself as Adrian held the door for her, his hand grazing the small of her back in a gesture so natural it made her breath hitch.

This is fake. This is fake. This is fake.

“Not bad,” she said briskly, stepping into the villa’s sunlit foyer.

Adrian arched a brow. “Not bad?”

“Don’t fish for compliments, Drake. I’m sure you’ve got half a dozen places like this.”

“Only three,” he replied dryly, and she rolled her eyes.

⸻

The first evening passed in uneasy truce. Adrian worked on his laptop in the study while Elena explored the villa, running her hands along the cool stone walls, inhaling the scent of lemon trees drifting in through the open windows. For the first time in weeks, there were no cameras, no headlines—just silence, broken only by the waves crashing far below.

She hadn’t realized how much she missed quiet until it settled over her like a soft blanket.

By the time dinner rolled around, Adrian surprised her by appearing in the kitchen. He’d shed his jacket and rolled his sleeves to his forearms, revealing strong, tanned skin.

“You cook?” she asked, suspicious.

He glanced up from chopping herbs with a chef’s knife that looked far too expensive. “Do I look incapable?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation.

Adrian’s lips twitched. “Sit. Watch and learn.”

She did sit—on the counter, swinging her legs like a child as he worked with unnerving precision. Fresh pasta, a sauce that smelled divine, a salad that looked like it belonged in a magazine spread.

“Let me guess,” Elena said. “Private tutors in five-star kitchens? Michelin-starred nannies?”

Adrian smirked, but there was a flicker of something softer in his eyes. “My mother taught me. When she was still alive.”

Elena stilled. The teasing words she’d had on her tongue evaporated. “Oh.”

The silence stretched. Adrian didn’t elaborate, just stirred the sauce with practiced ease. But something in his posture—shoulders tight, jaw set—spoke volumes.

She found herself sliding off the counter and moving to his side. “Well,” she said gently, “she taught you well. This smells incredible.”

His gaze flicked to hers, sharp and searching, as if trying to gauge whether her sympathy was genuine. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him, because his shoulders loosened a fraction.

“Don’t expect me to do this often,” he said lightly. “This is a one-time performance.”

“Mm-hm,” Elena teased, grateful for the return of his dry humor. “I’ll make sure to alert the press. ‘Adrian Drake, secret domestic god.’ Headlines will write themselves.”

He chuckled, and the sound was low, warm, almost intimate.

⸻

Dinner was…dangerously pleasant. They laughed more than they argued, shared stories more than barbs. Elena found herself watching Adrian when he wasn’t looking—the way his hair curled slightly at the ends when he didn’t slick it back, the way his eyes softened when he actually smiled.

It was unsettling. Fake dating was supposed to be exhausting, not comfortable.

Afterward, they carried their wine glasses to the terrace. The night air was cool, the sky spread with stars brighter than anything Elena ever saw in the city. She leaned against the railing, letting the salt breeze whip her hair.

“Beautiful,” she murmured.

Adrian, standing just behind her, said quietly, “Yes.”

When she turned, he wasn’t looking at the view. He was looking at her.

Her heart stumbled.

She opened her mouth, desperate to shatter the moment before it became something else, something dangerous. But all she managed was, “Don’t tell me you’re a secret poet too.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Not a poet. Just…observant.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was thick, charged, humming with something neither of them wanted to name.

⸻

The next morning was chaos of a different sort. Elena had taken over the kitchen this time, determined to prove she wasn’t useless. Unfortunately, her pancakes came out more like charcoal disks than fluffy clouds.

Adrian walked in just as she was glaring at the smoking pan. “You’re trying to kill me,” he said solemnly.

“Shut up,” she snapped, waving the spatula at him. “They’re rustic.”

“They’re inedible.”

“They’re creative!”

He stepped forward, plucked one off the plate, and took a bite. His face remained unreadable as he chewed.

“Well?” she demanded.

He swallowed, met her eyes, and said gravely, “This is the single worst thing I’ve ever tasted.”

She gasped. “You’re lying.”

“Unfortunately not.” He set the pancake down as though it were radioactive. “Congratulations, Castellano. You’ve achieved the impossible: weaponized breakfast.”

Despite herself, Elena burst out laughing. She laughed so hard she had to grip the counter for support. Adrian was watching her again, but not with mockery. With something quieter. Softer.

Something that made her laughter falter, her breath catch.

“Adrian—” she began, but the words died when his phone buzzed sharply on the counter.

He picked it up, glanced at the screen, and his jaw tightened. “Damn it.”

“What?” she asked, suddenly alert.

“The press,” he said grimly. “They know we’re here.”

Her stomach dropped. “Already?”

He nodded, his eyes dark. “They’ll be outside within hours.”

The fragile bubble they’d built—the laughter, the almost-kisses, the sense of peace—shattered like glass.

⸻

That afternoon, the villa gates were swarmed. Dozens of reporters, flashing cameras, shouted questions. Adrian’s security team held them back, but the air outside vibrated with chaos.

Inside, Elena stood by the window, her hands trembling despite her best effort to appear calm.

“We can’t stay,” Adrian said, already packing with efficient movements. “It’s too exposed.”

Elena turned, heart thudding. “Where do we go?”

He looked at her, his gaze steady, unreadable. But beneath it, she sensed something more—protectiveness, yes, but also fear. Not for himself. For her.

“Anywhere,” he said finally, his voice low. “As long as you’re safe.”

And for the first time, Elena wondered if maybe—just maybe—pretend wasn’t the whole truth anymore.