Falling into His Sweet Trap

~Ava~ I had just stepped off a grueling twelve-hour flight, barely peeling off my coat before my younger sister, Selene, ambushed me. She was practically vibrating with excitement, going on about an arranged marriage—something about Jason Vale. Exhausted, I pinched the bridge of my nose and leaned against the back of the couch. "Who's the poor, unfortunate soul stuck marrying Jason Vale?" Everyone in our social circle had the same impression of him—strict, old-fashioned, impossibly rigid, and about as fun as a tax audit. He was sharp-tongued, intimidating, and, according to some rumors, celibate. Not exactly the kind of guy you wanted to get stuck with for life. Selene blinked at me, then grinned. "You don’t know?" "Know what?" "The poor, unfortunate soul is you." I stared at her. "That’s not funny." "I'm not joking," she continued. "Mom and Dad made the arrangements while you were off abroad. Dad said you’re too reckless, impossible to control. Jason, on the other hand, is single, stable, and, ‘capable of keeping you in line.’” I scoffed, my exhaustion giving way to full-on disbelief. "This is ridiculous. Did they ever stop to wonder why I left in the first place?" Selene snorted. "Because you bombed your SATs, scored a 900, and ran off to avoid the shame?" "...That was only part of the reason." "Was the other part Jason?" she asked, a knowing lilt in her voice. I didn’t answer. Jason and I had history. And not the fun, flirty, "oops, we kissed once at a party" kind. He was three years older, a genius, the golden boy of every academic setting he walked into. Meanwhile, I was the family disgrace, consistently ranking in the bottom three at school and barely scraping by. When my parents realized I was in serious trouble, they did what they thought was best—they hired Jason to tutor me. It was hell. He made me redo equations until my fingers cramped. He smacked my hands with a ruler when I got answers wrong. He made school feel like a prison, and I, in turn, made it my life's goal to avoid him at all costs. By my senior year, he had somehow dragged my grades up enough for me to be eligible for college. But on the day of the big entrance exams, I got hit with a brutal flu. Feverish and barely able to think, I tanked the test and scored a humiliating 900. I still remember coming home that day, finding Jason sitting on the couch, a ruler in his hands, his gaze ice-cold. I panicked, grabbed my passport, and fled the country that night. For seven years, I stayed away. Now I was back because my father had ordered me to return and work at the family company. I was twenty-five. Jason was twenty-eight. Surely, we had both changed. Surely, the past was behind us. I had come back even thinking he was getting married. Turns out the joke was on me. Selene patted my shoulder, barely containing her amusement, and swaggered toward the fridge, grabbing a drink for herself before tossing one my way. Selene flopped onto the couch, kicking her feet up. "You know, Jason’s not bad-looking. I saw him from behind once—tall, muscular, kind of intense, but in a good way. You’re not exactly getting the short end of the stick here." I let out an exasperated laugh. "Marrying him would be a vow of celibacy. No thanks. I have needs, you know?” I rolled my eyes and drained the rest of my drink. At six in the evening, I showered, changed into a tight black dress, and checked myself in the mirror. I did look a little wild. But it was summer. If I wasn’t wild, I’d burn. I grabbed my keys. "Tell Mom and Dad I won’t be home for dinner." Selene lifted a brow. "You running away again?" I grinned. "Just clubbing. Might meet some cute guys there." She yawned. "Have fun with that." With the windows down and the night air rushing in, I muttered to myself, "There’s no way I’m marrying Jason." And I refused to be controlled. Still, a little voice in the back of my mind whispered: If you do end up marrying him… I shivered at the memory of Jason’s sharp gaze, his precise discipline, the way he never let me get away with anything. … I arrived at the club, my friend, Emma Johnson was the only one who’d shown up early, and she greeted me with a low whistle. "Damn, Ava, looking good." She gestured toward the bar, lowering her voice. "See that hottie? I’ve been eyeing him for a while." I followed her gaze. And wow. The man was stunning. A crisp white shirt, buttoned just right to hint at the muscles underneath. Long legs wrapped in tailored black pants. Silver-rimmed glasses perched on a high-bridged nose. Sexy lips sipping from a beer. Strict, put-together, yet effortlessly alluring. An intoxicating mix of sharp and sultry. Yet, something about him nagged at me. An odd familiarity I couldn’t place. "He looks kinda familiar," I mused. Emma waved a hand. "All handsome men do." “What about Jason Vale?” I casually brought him up. Emma pouted her lips, “Forget about him. That man’s a nightmare. My mom pulled strings to get me an internship at his company, and guess what? First thing he asked was my SAT score.” She rolled her eyes and continued. "And he’s a total perfectionist. My dad wanted to do business with him, but he had to kiss ass and show up four different times before Jason even considered working with him." I listened, quiet, fingers idly twirling the cigarette Emma had handed me. She eyed me. "Why are you asking about him? Thinking of working for him? Don’t. You wouldn’t last a day." I scoffed. "No reason. But hey, what do you think—should I go give that hot guy my number?" At that moment, the man in question turned his gaze toward us. My breath hitched. He’d been leaning against the bar, casual and poised, but the second our eyes met, a smile tugged at his lips. A small, almost subconscious tell. Then Emma nudged me, practically bouncing in her seat. "Oh my god. He’s coming over." Sure enough, the man pushed off from the bar and started walking in our direction. Even in the dim lighting, he carried an undeniable presence—refined yet commanding, his strides smooth, confident. Emma, flattered and flustered, quickly scooted aside. "Sit here?" "Thanks," he replied smoothly, sliding into the seat across from me. His sharp eyes locked onto mine, dark and unreadable. Studying. I arched a brow, intrigued. His presence was deliberate, intentional—like he knew exactly what effect he had on people. The man toyed with a lighter between his fingers. "You smoke?" I twirled the cigarette idly. "I don’t. Just holding it." He flicked the lighter, the flame casting a soft glow against his face. With quiet precision, he reached forward and lit it for me anyway. His smelt like deep, woody mixed with the crisp bite of menthol. Tempting. The air between us thickened. Emma was making all sorts of exaggerated expressions from across the table, but I ignored her. I tilted my head, assessing him. "What’s your name?" The man didn’t answer. Instead, he reached over, plucked the cigarette from my fingers, and held it between his own. Then he leaned in, his voice dropping to a low murmur near my ear. “Nice to meet you. But sorry, gotta go now." I exhaled slowly. "Where to?" "Business trip. Flying to San Francisco." The bar was alive with music, chatter, and the clinking of glasses, but his words—spoken directly against my ear—sent warmth skittering over my skin. "Oh, I see…" I tried to sound indifferent, but the moment felt… unfinished. No touching. No kissing. No reckless club hook-ups. Just a cigarette, a look, and the unshakable feeling that I wanted more. He stood, glanced down at the cigarette, then handed it back to me. "Here. I’m leaving." I shook my head. "Keep it." A small, knowing smile touched his lips. He turned toward the exit, and under the dim red lights, he cast one last glance over his shoulder—just for a second—before reaching out and crushing the cigarette in an ashtray. Something about that simple motion sent a sharp pulse through me. My heartbeat stuttered, then picked up—too fast, too unsteady.