Chapter 11:Mr Responsible
1193 Words
Leo’s POV
The alarm clock on my nightstand didn't just buzz; it felt like a personal insult at 5:30 AM.
I groaned, tossing the silk duvet off my legs and sitting up on the edge of the mattress. Usually, my sleep schedule was what my father called "a financial tragedy." Left to my own devices, I was a creature of the night. I preferred hitting my private penthouse gym at 2:00 AM, blasting Afrobeats through the empty floor, and sleeping until the sun was high enough to bake the Salt City sidewalks. Night workouts were my therapy—there was no one around to compare my lifting form to Julian’s, no paparazzi lurking outside the glass, just me, the bass, and the iron.
But today was December 20th. Today was D-Day.
If I wanted to prove to Beatrice and Alistair Vane that I was a completely reformed, highly responsible, functional member of high society, I couldn't roll up to Evie’s curb looking like a hungover influencer. I needed to be ahead of the clock. My mother’s warning about the five-hour trek up the winding roads to the Vane mountain estate echoed in my head: Do not be late, Leopold. The roads freeze early, and the schedule waits for no one.
"Responsible," I muttered to my reflection in the bathroom mirror, splashing freezing water onto my face to kill the final remnants of sleep. "We are doing responsible today."
I forced myself through a brutal, high-intensity morning workout. By 7:00 AM, my muscles were burning, my lungs were clear, and I’d scrubbed the sweat away under a scalding shower that felt a million times better than the freezing ones I’d been subjecting myself to lately.
By 7:45 AM, I was sitting at my marble kitchen island, wrapped in a plush gray robe, enjoying my absolute favorite premium breakfast: a stack of fluffy, thick buttermilk pancakes drenched in organic maple syrup, a side of perfectly crispy thick-cut turkey bacon, and a giant mug of black coffee so strong it could probably jump-start a dead battery.
With my fork in one hand, I used my other thumb to lazily scroll through social media. I was trying to check the local traffic reports for the mountain pass, but my algorithm had other plans. As I scrolled, a post from a tiny, independent beginner jewelry designer popped up onto my feed.
The page was small—barely a few thousand followers—but the work was stunning. She specialized in dainty, delicate custom designs, showcasing beautifully minimalist rings, intricate earrings, and personalized necklaces. My thumb hovered over a video of a custom nameplate she had just finished for a client.
I paused, my pancake forgotten on the fork.
Evie.
The name just sort of echoed in my head. I thought about the tiny apartment she lived in, her fierce independence, and the way she’d fought for every single dollar to pay her tuition. She didn't wear a lot of jewelry—just a simple pair of studs—but she deserved to wear something beautiful. And since she was going to be acting her heart out to save my lifestyle for the next fortnight, she needed a proper Christmas gift. Even a fake girlfriend deserved a real present under the Vane family tree.
I tapped the 'Message' button before my brain could overthink the budget.
Leo:Hey! Love your work. Can you do a rush custom order for a name necklace? 'EVIE'. I want the letters in delicate white gold, paved with little diamonds. But for the dot on the letter 'I', can you make it a tiny, custom-molded rose gold heart?
The designer replied almost instantly, probably recognizing my verified checkmark. She gave me a price that definitely wasn't cheap—custom diamond work on a twenty-four-hour notice carried a massive premium—but I didn't even hesitate. I wired the payment directly to her business account and gave her the address of the Vane estate’s local courier office in the mountain town for a December 24th delivery.
"Perfect," I murmured, a completely unprompted smile spreading across my lips. It was a beautiful piece. Classy, unique, and entirely devoid of the flashy, tacky branding my usual crowd loved. It felt like her.
By 9:00 AM, it was time to execute Operation: Respectable Heir.
I stood in my walk-in closet, meticulously constructing an outfit that screamed I understand asset management and I definitely don't stream from the bushes anymore. I chose a pair of perfectly tailored, heavy wool trousers in dark charcoal, a crisp white button-down shirt, and a thick, incredibly soft cashmere cable-knit sweater in a deep hunter green—a color that would look great against the snowy backdrop of the mountains and, if I was being completely honest with myself, would match the emerald green nail polish Evie had mentioned she was getting. I pulled on my favorite designer leather boots, grabbed a heavy black overcoat, and checked my hair from three separate angles in the mirror.
No flashy influencer jewelry. No ridiculous sunglasses indoors. Just a man ready to face his destiny.
I grabbed my phone and shot a quick, precise text to my consultant.
Leo:Good morning, sunshine. Loading up the McLaren now. I’ll be at your curb in exactly two hours. We need to hit the road by 11:00 AM sharp to beat the mountain traffic and my mother’s wrath. Be ready.
I tucked the phone into my pocket, grabbed my massive leather duffel bag, and headed down to the private garage. I had one final stop to make before picking her up—the high-end wine merchant downtown to secure the specific vintage Bordeaux my mother had demanded on her midnight list.
The city was quiet as I drove, the crisp December morning air whistling against the sleek frame of my car. I got the wine, secured the heavy crate in the front trunk next to my bags, and checked the dashboard clock.
10:45 AM. I was ahead of schedule. For the first time in twenty-five years, Leopold Vane was early.
As I steered the sports car toward Evie’s neighborhood, my chest began to tighten with that familiar, high-voltage nervous energy. The five-hour journey up the mountain pass wasn't just a drive; it was going to be five hours trapped in a confined leather-scented space with the only girl who had ever made me run out of a room in sheer panic.
I gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, watching the familiar brick buildings of her street come into view. I needed to keep my cool. I needed to act like a professional client. But as I pulled up to her curb and shifted the car into park, my eyes automatically darted up to her window, my heart doing that stupid, frantic rhythm all over again.
"Five hours," I whispered to myself, smoothing down the front of my hunter green sweater. "Just keep your hands on the wheel, Leo. The performance hasn't even started yet."
- Writer
