Marla’s POV
Ava’s threat didn’t rattle me, I’d been through worse. Bruises didn’t always show on skin, sometimes they sat under your ribcage and waited for nights like this to ache. So I showed up at Ives’ office with no agenda, just wanting to see him. Maybe remind myself this whole fake engagement wasn’t one-sided. Once I entered, the known cold and bossy man, named Ives, looked up, and creased his forehead.
"Any problem?" I shook my head.
"Coffee?" I offered and placed it on his coffee table.
He stood up from his table and stepped closer, I stepped closer as well. We met halfway like we always did lately, without thinking. The second his mouth met mine, my brain shut off. He kissed me like I was the only thing he wanted that day. Hands sliding to my hips, pulling me into him like he’d been starving. His mouth was rough, desperate, unforgiving. I moaned, actually moaned, into his kiss, and felt him groan against my lips. My hands were in his hair before I could stop myself, tugging, deepening it, until I had to pull back just to breathe.
“Easy,” I whispered, breathless. “You still have an image to protect, remember?”
“Then stop kissing me like that,” he muttered, voice low and wrecked.
“It's not my fault you taste better than espresso.” He laughed, laughed. That dangerous half-smile that always came before he did something reckless.
I pressed my fingers to his chest and pushed him back gently. “I’m cooking dinner.”
He blinked. “You?”
“Don’t act so shocked. Seven. Be home.”
He grabbed my wrist as I turned to leave and spun me back to him, pulling me into one last kiss, deeper, slower, tongue teasing, hands possessive like he wanted to remind me who I belonged to. I stepped back dazed, lipstick smudged, heart pounding.
He smirked. “I’ll be there.”
The kitchen smelled like garlic and dumb hope. I cooked. For real. Made pasta from scratch like I wasn’t the same girl who used to burn toast in college. I even set the table. Folded napkins. Lit candles. I didn’t want romance. I wanted honesty. Something real. Something that felt like two people trying. But I was the only one trying.
7:00. No message.
7:30. I checked again. Still nothing.
By 8:15, the pasta had hardened. I’d reheated the sauce twice. The wine had gone from chilled to warm to bitter. My playlist had looped back to the same song that played when I’d walked into his office earlier. Funny.
At 9:11, I blew out the candles.
At 9:14, I finally let the hurt settle in. And then, keys in the door. I stood still and quiet. Let him walk in, he didn’t speak nor look at me. He just walked past like I was invisible.
“Ives,” I said, voice flat. He tossed his jacket on the counter. Opened the fridge.
“I said dinner. Seven. You said you’d come home.” He pulled out a bottle of water like I hadn’t said a word.
“Ives,” I repeated, louder now. He finally looked up. No apology. No emotion.
“What?” he said, like I was the one being unreasonable.
“You promised,” I said. “You looked me in the eye and said, ‘I’ll be there.’ So what the hell happened?”
He shrugged. “Work ran late.”
“Bullshit. You could’ve texted.”
“I didn’t realize I had to check in every five minutes,” he snapped, voice soaked in sarcasm. “Do I need to start sending hourly updates now? Because honestly, you’re acting way too much.”
I froze. My mouth opened, but nothing came out. He wasn’t just cold. He was someone else entirely. Someone I didn’t recognize. Someone who made me feel stupid for caring. Something in my chest cracked.
“Ives...” I said quietly, the words shaky. “I just... I made dinner.”
He scoffed. Actually scoffed. “And I said I’m tired, Marla. Not now. Please.”
Like I was noise, the problem. Then he walked right past me.Didn’t pause, look at me nor touch me. And I stood there, next to a table full of cold pasta, stunned.