It wasn't sweet.
It was a dare.
A challenge.
A line she'd crossed with her eyes open.
He tasted like whiskey and midnight and the kind of trouble she'd spent her entire adult life avoiding. His hands came up, framing her jaw, and for a breathless moment, neither of them moved—like they were both waiting for the other to break.
Then he did.
He kissed her back, deep and unapologetic, and the floor seemed to fall away.
She was aware, distantly, that people were staring. That somewhere Weiwei was probably screaming in triumph. But none of it mattered.
All that mattered was the impossible heat between them.
They didn't speak in the car
His hand rested on her knee, thumb tracing circles through her tights, while the other was on the steering.
Every nerve ending she owned was on fire.
He lifted her, his hands securing her bum as they kissed hungrily. He flung the door open, pinning her to the wall as she unbuttoned his shirt.
They didn't say a word, their eyes burning into each other with deadly desires
He slid down the zipper of her gown, slowly, carefully and planted wet kisses on her collarbone.
His apartment was dark, the city lights catching in the windows. She kicked her shoes off, turned—and he was already there, his mouth claiming hers in a kiss that tasted like surrender.
They never made it to the bed.
***
The world was too bright when she opened her eyes. Her head throbbed, her throat raw—and then she felt it.
The weight of an arm draped over her waist.
She looked down.
Jacob Vanders.
Fast asleep in the living room, one long leg tangled with hers on the couch they'd half destroyed.
But wait. She wasn't familiar with the set-up. Where was she? What happened last night at the club?
A sick, lurching feeling twisted in her gut.
Because it hadn't been a fantasy. It hadn't been a nightmare.
It was real.
Her brain was still rebooting when all of a sudden she jumped up with a yelp.
"What the fuck!" She ran her hands through her hair, pacing back and forth.
His eyes opened. Cool. Flat. Infuriatingly clear.
"What the heck happened? Where am I?" She paced "oh God no" she quickly took her phone on the floor and saw thirteen missed calls and ten messages from WeiWei
Oh shit, shit! This can't be happening. She thought.
If she remembered correctly, she bumped into someone. He was wearing a…
Her eyes caught Jacob's shirt lying on the floor.
Then she got drunk and approached him.
Fanny put her hands over her mouth as her brain played the flashback of what happened.
She pointed at Jacob, the words refusing to come out.
Her mind rushed to catch up—tequila, heat, his mouth on her throat, her own desperate hands tugging at his shirt—and she felt the blood drain from her face.
Slowly, like she was disarming a bomb, she turned her head.
Jacob Vanders. You bastard!
His hair was mussed, dark lashes resting against sharp cheekbones, the kind of beautiful that made her want to slap something. He looked unfairly serene, as if he hadn't just obliterated every scrap of her composure.
Her head pounded.
"Oh my God," she breathed, voice hoarse.
"Good morning," he said, as if they'd just woken up from a nap, not…whatever that had been.
She covered her mouth and shut her eyes tight as if she would just disappear to home or wake up from a dream.
The blanket wrapped around her chest, threatening to slide down and reveal her nakedness.
"This—this did not happen," she blurted, pressing a shaking hand to her forehead.
Jacob propped himself up on one elbow, gaze raking her with deliberate slowness.
"I assure you," he said calmly, "it did."
Humiliation surged hot and fast. She yanked the blanket tighter, fighting the urge to throw it over his maddeningly perfect face.
"You planned this," she accused, voice trembling. "You knew I'd be there. You followed me."
He blinked once. "Followed you?"
"Don't pretend," she snapped. "You've been lurking in every corner of my life ever since that day. You—"
"I don't lurk," he interrupted, smooth as black ice. "And I didn't plan anything beyond a drink. You were the one who kissed me."
Her mouth fell open. "I—I was drunk!"
She grabbed her gown on the floor and slid into it. Fighting with the zipper made her even more infuriated.
His expression didn't change. "Yes. That was rather obvious."
"You—" She choked on a furious laugh. "You're unbelievable."
Jacob stretched, unconcerned with his own nakedness, and stood. He moved past her to pick up his shirt from the floor. As he shrugged it on, he spoke in that same infuriatingly mild tone.
"It's not complicated, Francesca. You were angry. I was—curious."
"Curious?"
"There's something about you," he continued, buttoning his cuff, "something I wanted to confirm."
Her throat went dry. "And did you?"
He met her gaze, unblinking. "Yes."
"What does that mean?" she demanded.
He tilted his head, studying her like she was a riddle he'd already solved.
"That there's nothing special," he said simply. "Nothing worth pretending otherwise."
It felt like a slap.
Heat rushed up her neck, shame and rage colliding in her chest.
"Nothing special?" she echoed, her voice ragged. "God, you really are a bastard."
He arched his brow. "I never claimed otherwise."
"I—" She scrubbed a hand over her face, trying to steady her breathing. "You think you can just waltz into my life, buy my grandmother's house, bully me into marriage—and then insult me?"
Jacob slipped his hands into his pockets, his voice low and utterly unruffled.
"I didn't bully you," he said. "Yet. As for the rest—"
He shrugged. "We're adults. It was mutual."
"Mutual?" she hissed. "I'd rather set myself on fire."
His mouth curved, humorless. "Then you should work on your impulse control. Because you were very…enthusiastic."
Her ears burned. "Don't you dare."
He stepped closer, his tone suddenly quiet, almost intimate.
"There's no need to be shy," he murmured. "After all, we're getting married."
She felt her stomach drop.
"Married?" she repeated, incredulous. "You think what happened last night makes this inevitable?"
He didn't smile. Didn't blink. Just watched her with those cold, impossible eyes.
"It was always inevitable," he said softly. "Last night simply confirmed it."
Her breath came out in a ragged exhale. How she wanted to stab his throat or how badly she wanted to wipe his face on a burner.
"I will never belong to you," she whispered. "Not my body. Not anything."
He tilted his head, as though mildly intrigued by her defiance.
"Is that what you tell yourself to feel better?"
Her hands clenched around the blanket. "You arrogant, hollow—"
"You'll see," he interrupted calmly. "All of this righteous indignation. It will fade."
She stared at him, hatred curling hot in her chest.
"You really believe that," she said, voice shaking.
He didn't answer. Just looked at her like she was a problem he'd already solved.
That was the worst part—his utter certainty.
Something inside her snapped.
"You're wrong," she whispered. "About everything. About me."
She turned on her heel, ignoring the tremor in her legs, and stormed toward the door.
"Francesca," he called behind her, voice maddeningly composed.
She didn't turn.
"Don't flatter yourself," she spat over her shoulder. "You were a mistake I won't repeat."
Then she was gone, the door slamming shut behind her with a force that rattled the frame.
This was a huge mess.
Jacob stood in the middle of the living room for a long moment, he didn't move.
The apartment immediately went back to the dead quiet as she left. It bothered him but at the same time, it sparked something.
Finally, he exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
Stubborn, he thought. And not as easy to dismiss as he'd hoped.
He unbuttoned the last cuff of his shirt and turned toward the window, watching the city.
He told himself he felt nothing. And for the most part, he almost believed it.
***
Fanny slipped her key into the lock, bracing for the stillness that always met her here.
The house was quiet. Morning light was slanting through the tall windows, turning the polished floors into sheets of pale gold. The air smelled faintly of lemon wax and old books.
Once, this house had felt like safety. Now it felt like a museum—full of memories she wasn't sure she wanted to touch.
She shut the door behind her and leaned against it, pressing her palms to the carved wood. Her reflection stared back at her in the hall mirror—hair in a wild mess, lipstick smudged, the neckline of her dress askew. She looked like exactly what she was: a woman who'd made a terrible, unforgettable mistake.
Her phone buzzed for the fourteenth time.
She fished it out of her purse with trembling fingers, and WeiWei's name lit the screen in a bubble of relentless cheer.
Thirteen missed calls. Twelve messages.
A hysterical laugh bubbled in her throat. She hadn't even had time to feel embarrassed yet—WeiWei would make sure she did.
She pressed the call button and dragged herself into the kitchen.
The line clicked, and her best friend's voice exploded out of the speaker.
"Francesca! Dawson!"
Fanny winced and held the phone away from her ear, but it didn't help. WeiWei's indignation was volcanic.
"Do you know what time it is? Where have you been? You dropped off the map!"
"I'm fine," Fanny managed, voice hoarse. She set her purse on the counter and scrubbed a hand over her face. "I'm home."
"You're home? That's it? That's all you have to say to me?" WeiWei's voice rose, teetering on the edge of genuine panic. "I thought you were dead! Or locked in some billionaire's secret basement!"
"I wasn't—"
"I called you thirteen times, Fanny. I was about to file a missing persons report!"
Fanny closed her eyes. "I'm sorry. I…I lost track of time."
"Oh, you lost track of time?" WeiWei's voice sharpened to a delighted shriek. "That's interesting, because the last time I saw you, you were sticking your tongue down Jacob Vanders's throat!"
Fanny groaned and let her forehead thunk against the cupboard. "Please stop."
"No, no, you don't get to vanish and then please stop me," WeiWei crowed. "What happened? Did he take you to his evil billionaire lair? Did you do unspeakable things on a bed made of money?"
"WeiWei."
"Don't 'WeiWei' me. I need details."
Fanny drew a slow breath, willing her voice not to crack. "He…noticed I was drunk, and he offered to drive me home."
The silence on the line was so complete she could hear her own heartbeat.
"…that's your story?" WeiWei said finally, voice suspiciously calm.
"It's not a story. It's the truth."
"Oh, sweetheart." WeiWei sighed dramatically. "You are many things, but a good liar is not one of them."
Fanny squeezed her eyes shut. "I'm telling you the truth."
"Uh-huh."
"I am!"
"Sure." WeiWei's tone turned sly. "And did you happen to 'accidentally' remove each other's clothes on the way to this very responsible ride home?"
Heat flooded Fanny's cheeks. "God, no. Can you stop?"
"I saw the way he looked at you, Fanny." WeiWei's voice softened, just a little. "Like he wanted to devour you. And you looked at him like you were dying to let him."
"That's ridiculous."
"It's not. And I'm just saying—maybe all this bickering means you two are one good hate-sex marathon away from a love story."
Fanny choked on air. "Are you seriously romanticizing this?"
"I'm a wedding planner's daughter. I romanticize everything." WeiWei let out a laugh. "Besides, he's hot in a terrifying, morally questionable way. It's a public service if you climb him like a tree."
"You are deranged," Fanny muttered, pressing her free hand to her flaming cheek.
"And you're blushing," WeiWei sing-songed. "Which means I'm right."
Fanny let out a strangled noise and straightened, desperate to steer the conversation anywhere else. "Can we please change the subject?"
"Fine. But only because I love you."
"I need to go shopping," Fanny announced, voice brisk. "For the wedding."
"Ooh, practical."
"I have to buy something to wear. And maybe something to remind me I'm still in control of my life."
WeiWei sighed theatrically. "Yes, yes, buying shoes is a classic feminist power move. I'll allow it."
A knock sounded behind her. Fanny turned to see Mr Harold, the butler, framed in the doorway with a slim white box cradled in his gloved hands.
"Miss Dawson," he said, voice gentle. "A package arrived for you."
Fanny frowned. "From who?"
"There's a note," he said, offering the envelope.
She took it with slow fingers, her heart thudding.
The handwriting was instantly familiar—looped and elegant.
Her mother's.
For a moment, everything in the kitchen blurred.
WeiWei must have heard the silence, because her voice softened to a whisper. "Fanny?"
"It's…it's from my mom."
"Oh."
She sank down onto the velvet settee in the hall, the package balanced on her knees. Her hands trembled as she slipped her finger under the seal and pulled the note free.
I thought you might need something to remind you who you are.
I hope, when you wear it, you remember you are loved—even when we forget how to show it.
— Mom.
Her throat went tight.
Inside the box, nestled in tissue paper, lay a delicate gold locket—the one she'd watched her mother wear every Sunday of her childhood. The locket she'd once played with as a little girl, pressing it to her cheek when she was scared.
She lifted it out, her vision blurring. The chain pooled in her palm, warm from the sun.
She pressed the clasp and the locket clicked open.
Inside was a tiny photo of her as a child—five years old, missing her front teeth—and one of her mother smiling down at her.
Her chest ached.
WeiWei's voice was soft in her ear. "Fanny…what is it?"
"It's a locket," she whispered. "Her locket."
She brushed her thumb over the tiny photograph, the one she'd almost forgotten.
"I think she wants me to remember," she said, voice breaking. "That there was a time when she loved me more than anything."
Silence stretched, gentle as a held breath.
WeiWei's voice came back, low and sure. "She still does."
Fanny pressed the locket to her heart, feeling it pulse with old memories.
For a moment, she felt all her worries slip away.