[Floris’ POV]
The nightmare finds me like it always does.
The sharp bite of alcohol in the air, my father's voice rising to a roar, the screech of tires that never stops echoing. I wake with a scream trapped in my throat, heart pounding against my ribs like it's trying to escape without me.
The hotel ceiling stares back, indifferent. I lie there for a long moment, waiting for my pulse to remember I’m not twelve years old anymore, that the danger passed a long time ago.
It doesn't work. It never works.
So I do what I always do when the darkness gets too loud—I go looking for light.
The hotel’s lounge is nearly deserted at this hour, all marble floors and muted elegance. But the fireplace is still burning, flames dancing behind glass like they're putting on a show for an audience of one.
The bar sits empty, chairs stacked, and I curl into an armchair near the hearth, letting the warmth seep into bones that still feel cold from dreams I can't shake.
I pull my oversized sweater tighter and watch the flames until my breathing steadies.
I consider hitting up Gemma, but it’s too late in the day, and after I relayed to her all the ‘secret-fake-fiance arrangement with billionaire thing’ I’m afraid she’ll start this topic again and I won’t be able to explain my reasoning well enough that she believes it this time.
I don't expect company. Which is why I nearly launch out of my skin when Maverick appears like he's been conjured from shadows.
My first instinct is to flee. I'm in my comfort sweater, no makeup, hair probably doing something tragic, and he's standing there looking unfairly put-together for whatever ungodly hour this is.
I start to rise. "I was just—"
"Stay." One word. Not a request.
I sink back down, heart going faster than probably advised. He settles into the armchair across from me, and I don't know what to do with that. With him, here, in the quiet hours when normal people are sleeping and I'm running from ghosts.
We're silent for a while. It should feel awkward—two people who barely know each other and who agreed to perform that strange arrangement anyway, sitting in a hotel lounge at midnight.
But somehow it doesn't. The fire crackles and the world outside feels very far away.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asks finally.
"Bad dreams." I shrug, aiming for casual. "The usual monsters-under-the-bed situation. Very pedestrian nightmare content, not even creative."
His eyes study me with that intensity that makes me feel seen in ways I'm not sure I want. I steer the conversation sideways before he can ask questions I don't want to answer, my gaze landing on a chessboard set up on the table between us.
"Do you play?" I ask, nodding toward it.
"Occasionally."
"I don't know the first thing about chess. It seems very intellectual and strategic. Two things I'm famously not known for. Could you maybe teach me?"
I expect impatience. Dismissal. Yet, he leans forward and begins arranging the pieces with careful precision.
"This is the king," he says, holding up the tallest piece. "Most important. If you lose him, you lose the game."
"No pressure on the king, then."
"And this is the queen." He sets her beside the king. "Most powerful piece on the board. She can move anywhere."
"I already like her. Very feminist chess energy."
His mouth twitches—almost a smile. Almost. He walks me through each piece with surprising patience, explaining movements and strategies while I nod along and retain approximately twelve percent of the information.
When I make my first move—catastrophically bad, apparently—his eyebrows lift.
"You're sacrificing your bishop for nothing."
"Maybe I'm playing psychological warfare. Keep you guessing."
"You're not."
"I'm absolutely not," I admit. "I have no idea what I'm doing."
We play in silence for a couple minutes, before I'm brave enough to ask. "Can I ask you something personal?"
He moves his bishop with deliberate care. "You're going to anyway."
"Have you ever actually been in love? Not the arranged stuff, but some real, messy, can't-stop-thinking-about-them love?"
His fingers pause on a knight. "No."
"Never?"
"Relationships have always been... transactional." He captures one of my pawns. "Love wasn't part of the equation."
"That's sad," I say softly, then wince. "Sorry. That came out more judgmental than I meant."
"What about you?" He glances up, eyes catching the firelight. "Any heartbroken exes I should know about? Former lovers who might complicate our arrangement?"
My cheeks flush hot. "No. None ever."
The admission tumbles out before I can stop it.
"I've never... I mean, I've been on dates. A few, but nothing serious. Nothing that went anywhere." I laugh nervously. "Too busy working, too focused on helping my mom. Too af—”
I cut myself off before I say something too honest. It’s already too much for my boss-fake-fiance to know about me being a virgin at twenty years old.
He's watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle, but doesn’t push to finish. "You've never… been with anyone?"
It's not a question and it alone makes my face burn hotter. "Is that a problem? For the arrangement, I mean."
"No." His voice drops lower. Rougher. "Not a problem at all."
The silence stretches between us, thick with something I can't name as his gaze holds mine a beat too long before returning to the board.
"Your move," he says.
I drag my gaze away from him to the boar and make a decision that's probably terrible, moving my queen directly into danger. He captures her in one move.
"That was my favorite piece!" I protest.
"Then you shouldn't have sacrificed her."
"I didn't sacrifice her, I was being bold. Aggressive. Chess-forward." That is a lie, and we both know it.
"You were being reckless." He almost smiles.
"Tomato, tomato."
He wins. Decisively. Embarrassingly. I demand a rematch with the righteous indignation of someone who has learned absolutely nothing from their defeat. He agrees, and I lose again—but this time, I nearly capture his knight.
His eyebrows lift in something that might actually be respect. "You're learning."
"I'm a very fast learner when properly motivated." I suppress a yawn and fail spectacularly. "What time is it?"
He checks his watch. "Past two."
"That can't be right… We just started."
"Three hours ago."
I blink at him, then at the chess board, then at the dying fire. Three hours. It felt like thirty minutes. Time moves differently around him, I'm starting to realize.
He stands, and I follow, legs stiff from sitting so long. We walk toward the elevator together, and I'm so focused on not yawning again that I don't see the luggage cart until I'm about to walk directly into it.
His hand lands on my head, warm and solid, steering me sideways to safety.
I feel small beneath his palm—not in a diminishing way, but in a way that makes me feel held. Safe in a way I haven't felt in a very long time.
When the elevator doors open, I step inside and turn to face him, his hand finally falling away. The absence feels louder than it should.
"Thank you," I say softly. "For the distraction."
I mean more than chess. I think he knows. "Goodnight, Miss Blossom."
“Floris,” I say instead, and he looks at me, trying to decipher what that was. I smile while hiding the terror over my own audacity. “Call me Floris. We need to be believable, remember?”
He nods, still processing. The doors close on his face—those green eyes watching me until the last possible second. I lean against the elevator wall, still feeling the ghost of his hand in my hair, the way he looked at me when he talked about coming home to someone.
Back in my room, I text Gemma.
Me: I think I'm in trouble…
Her response is immediate with a lot of emojis.
Gem: The hot billionaire CEO?
I stare at the screen and my thumbs hover over the keyboard. I don't answer.
Which is apparently an answer enough.