Love On The Wrong Foot

The Ivory Cup, one of London’s most exclusive cafés and a jewel in the crown of Carrington Enterprises, was uncharacteristically tranquil. Normally, the café brimmed with patrons desperate for a luxurious moment of respite. But today, it stood as though suspended in time—a silent bubble immune to the frenetic pulse of the city.

That fragile serenity, however, was about to be shattered. Not by a mere commotion, but by the full-force collision of two titanic personalities, the kind that could weaponize wit and sarcasm as easily as breathing. It wasn’t supposed to happen here; the cosmic chaos was meant for The Velvet Room, the swanky restaurant just across the street. Yet, in an unexpected twist of fate—or perhaps the devil himself intervening—the storm had veered off course, crashing into The Ivory Cup instead.

Somewhere in the astral realm, one could almost hear Satan chuckling, sipping an overpriced macchiato, his Rolls-Royce Boat Tail idling smugly atop the café’s roof.

Inside, The Ivory Cup carried on, blissfully unaware of its impending doom. Hushed murmurs, porcelain clinks, and the faint whir of an espresso machine harmonized with the minimalist elegance of its polished oak tables and artful monochrome walls. This was a sanctuary for the uber-refined, where patrons nursed absurdly priced lattes while pretending, they didn’t owe their souls to the rat race.

But tranquility and Camila Serrano had never been on speaking terms.

She entered with all the subtlety of a hurricane in stilettos, her camel coat framing her as a force of nature. Her heels struck the floor with the staccato precision of a war drum, her presence commanding heads to turn and then quickly look away, lest they be caught staring too long.

Camila’s sharp, calculating gaze scanned the room, sizing up the café’s patrons and their curated aesthetic as if auditing them. She smirked internally. The décor? Predictable. The clientele? Pretentious. The vibe? Passable. She exhaled softly, as though she’d expected no less.

Reaching the counter, she ordered with the efficiency of someone accustomed to being obeyed. “One Americano. Extra shot.” Her voice was cool and smooth, like a blade cutting through silk. It was the verbal equivalent of black coffee, no sugar, no apologies.

The barista, a deer in the headlights of her frosty charisma, blinked. “Name for the order, ma’am?”

“Hope,” she said, her smirk just crooked enough to tiptoe between mischief and menace. It wasn’t technically a lie, though it wasn’t her truth either. She had a long-standing policy: strangers didn’t get her real name. Hope was safer—short, sweet, and ironic enough to amuse her.

Coffee in hand, she claimed a seat by the window, her self-designated throne with an uninterrupted view of The Velvet Room across the street. She pulled out her current indulgence: The Duke’s Embrace. The cover alone, featuring a half-clothed duke and a damsel who clearly didn’t understand buttons, was enough to ignite curiosity.

Camila, however, wasn’t fazed. She was the founder and CEO of TerraNova Technologies, a pioneer in cutting-edge tech innovation. She could give a TED Talk on quantum algorithms without breaking a sweat, yet her guilty pleasure remained steamy romance novels with titles that would make her board of directors faint. And when it came to stolen moments of indulgence, she preferred the duke’s embrace over the cold, unyielding grip of tech magazines. No one had to know—not her board, not her rivals, and certainly not the two tornadoes heading her way, primed to disrupt her morning peace.

As Camila lost herself in the Duke’s scandalous tryst with his forbidden lover, the two tornados made landfall.

Nicholas Carrington strode into The Ivory Cup with the air of a man who owned it—which, inconveniently for everyone else, he did. His long-legged stride exuded impatience, his sharp green eyes daring anyone to slow him down.

Trailing dutifully, and somewhat grudgingly, behind him was Oreo, his long-haired Chinese Crested Powderpuff. Like his owner, Oreo had a reputation: prickly, aloof, and possessing a bite-first, bark-later policy. The dog, much like Nicholas, had little tolerance for nonsense.

Nicholas made a beeline for the counter, laser-focused on securing his honey jasmine tea to compensate for his skipped breakfast. The barista, already flustered from Camila’s earlier frostiness, hesitated before asking timidly, “Name, please, sir?”

“Nick,” he muttered, uncharacteristically forgoing his usual repertoire of fake names like Thor, Lord Carrington, or The King, the names that made the staff groan but secretly amused him to no end.

But Oreo had other plans.

One second, the dog was glued to Nicholas’s side, exuding his trademark grumpiness. The next, he was gone—bolting across the café like he’d been possessed.

Nicholas froze. Oreo never bolted. Oreo didn’t wag. Oreo didn’t like anyone. But now, his aloof little beast was wagging his tail like an unhinged metronome, racing toward a woman seated by the window, nose buried in a book.

Camila didn’t flinch when the dog stopped at her feet, barking and pawing at her with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. Her lips curled into an amused smile as she glanced down.

“Oh, it’s you again,” she said, her voice warm and teasing as her fingers found the sweet spot behind Oreo’s ears.

Nicholas, who had just regained the ability to move, froze mid-step again. That voice. It was warm and honeyed, but with an edge that promised trouble. What would it sound like moaning his name? Or whispering it against his neck? Or—

Get a grip, Carrington. He clenched his jaw. You don’t even know what she looks like.

“You’re completely fascinated, aren’t you?” the woman cooed, her fingers finding the perfect spot behind Oreo’s ears. “You’re such a little perv!” She laughed again, light and teasing, before adding in mock-seriousness, “I bet your owner’s just as incorrigible.”

Nicholas’ jaw clenched. His first instinct was to march over and inform this stranger that her opinions about his dog—and, by extension, him—were entirely unwarranted. But Oreo, the most antisocial being on four legs, was practically melting under her touch, so Nicholas settled for indignation instead.

“Excuse me,” he said, his voice cutting through the café’s gentle hum like a razor blade. He closed the distance between them in a few long strides, stepping squarely into her line of sight.

She looked up, and the world tilted.

The sharp retort Nicholas had prepared died on his tongue. She was stunning. Not just beautiful—distractingly beautiful. Her blue-gray eyes dared him to say something clever, high cheekbones framed a face that belonged on the cover of Vogue, and lips curved into the faintest smirk—amused, unimpressed, and utterly magnetic.

Camila blinked, momentarily disarmed herself. Damn. The man standing before her was devastatingly handsome—green eyes sharp enough to pierce armor, a jawline that could have been sculpted by Michelangelo, and an air of arrogance so thick you could cut it with a butter knife.

Unfortunately, he spoke.

“Ah, so you’re the owner,” she said, arching a brow as her initial awe gave way to infuriation. “That figures. No wonder the dog’s got better manners than you do.”

Nicholas’s lips twitched, caught between amusement and irritation. “And you must be the dog whisperer,” he shot back, sarcasm dripping from every word. “Funny, I didn’t think Oreo liked people.”

Camila leaned back in her chair, her smirk curling. “Oreo has taste. Pity that doesn’t seem to extend to his owner.”

Nicholas crossed his arms, a lopsided grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Taste, really? I suppose that’s why he’s practically worshipping the ground you walk on. Didn’t realize Oreo was into questionable novels.”

Camila’s brow arched, her expression sharpening as she snapped her book shut with deliberate slowness. Her blue-gray eyes sparkled with a mix of mischief and challenge. “Oh, so this café moonlights as your critique stage? Is that your side gig, or am I just the lucky winner of today’s unsolicited commentary?”

Nicholas chuckled, the sound low and infuriatingly smooth. “What can I say? I’m drawn to things that beg for improvement.”

Camila’s lips curled into a triumphant smirk. “So, you’ve been spending a lot of time in front of the mirror, then?” She punctuated her remark with a soft laugh as Oreo let out a bark, a tiny sound that seemed like agreement.

Nicholas leaned in a fraction, resting his hands on the edge of the table. His green eyes—sharp, predatory, but tinged with a flicker of admiration—locked onto hers. “You’ve got a sharp tongue, don’t you?”

“Comes in handy,” Camila replied smoothly, meeting his gaze without flinching. “Especially when dealing with men who think they own every room they walk into. I’m willing to bet you assumed everyone here would swoon over your perfectly tousled hair and overpriced shoes?”

His gaze dropped briefly to his leather brogues, handcrafted and painfully expensive, before flicking back to hers with a challenge. “Oh, I don’t need to make anyone swoon. It’s more of a reflex when I’m around.”

Camila’s laugh was warm and unrestrained, but with a dash of mockery. “Oh, bless your heart. Rejection must be as foreign to you as humility.”

Nicholas leaned in closer, his voice dropping an octave, now fully aware of the simmering tension between them. “Why? Are you planning to give me a masterclass?”

“Someone should,” Camila quipped, her smirk widening with a knowing look. “It’s the kind of skill that could do wonders for someone with... your personality.”

The waiter arrived just in time to save them from diving deeper into the exchange, setting down a steaming Americano in front of Camila and a honey jasmine tea on the table with a cheerful grin. “Americano, extra shot, for Hope, and honey jasmine tea for Nick. Enjoy!” He flashed a friendly smile, glancing between the two as if unaware of the simmering tension that had built in the space between them.

Nicholas mulled over her name, quietly testing the sound of it in his head. Hope. He couldn’t help but chuckle inwardly. The irony was almost too much. Her name promised warmth, yet there wasn’t a trace of it in the sharpness of her eyes or the way she cut him down. Hope, and yet she had all the warmth of an ice sculpture.

Camila, for her part, was equally amused, but in a different way. Nick, she mused. How quaint. A name that matched his grandiose aura. It’s almost cute how someone with such an inflated ego is saddled with such a short, forgettable name.

Nicholas broke the silence with a smirk. “Why bother with a single cup of coffee?” he mocked, gesturing to her drink. “Just hook yourself up to an IV drip of caffeine already. Think of all the time you’d save, not to mention the barista’s sanity.”

Camila snorted, her sarcasm cutting through the air. “And your tea? What’s that about? Are you genuinely channeling inner zen, or just trying to fake sophistication for a change?”

This wasn’t Nicholas’s table, but when the waiter mistakenly placed his order here, he’d made no move to correct him. Instead, he found himself intrigued enough to stay. The woman in front of him wasn’t swooning, wasn’t fawning. She intrigued him—something he rarely allowed to happen.

For the first time in ages, he wasn’t in control. And, shockingly, it thrilled him. Why was she different? he wondered. She was the first woman in a long time who hadn’t been entranced by his presence. Even more striking? She was rendering him speechless. That? That was something he couldn’t ignore.

Without asking, he pulled out the chair opposite her and made himself comfortable. Camila’s brows shot up, her expression a silent challenge.

“Several tables are empty, Nick,” she remarked, her voice edged with both annoyance and something much more playful. “Did I accidentally put up a ‘bother me’ sign?”

Nicholas shifted in his seat, suddenly aware of the stirrings in his lower half. He cursed silently, his gaze flicking to the table, then back to her. Damn it, he thought. I didn’t expect this. The way she’d said his name, with that particular inflection, had sent a jolt through him he couldn’t quite hide. And the embarrassment? Well, that was a first. A hard-on. In public. Because of her. This is definitely a first.

He cleared his throat, trying to shake off the discomfort. “Why don’t you just make yourself at home, Hope?” he retorted, attempting to mask the tinge of embarrassment that still clung to him. “After all, this is your table, isn’t it?”

Camila, ever perceptive, caught the shift in his demeanor. Her gaze flicked down to where his eyes had dropped, then back up to his face, a dangerous spark lighting her own. Her lips curled into a sly grin, the challenge in her eyes unmistakable.

“Make myself at home?” she replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, Nick, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not here to bask in your... unique brand of hospitality.” She emphasized unique with a quick glance at his crotch, her eyes twinkling with daring confidence. “But hey, thanks for the offer—no thanks.”

Nicholas gritted his teeth, his grin tight as he tried to rein in his composure. She was entirely unphased by him—by his charm, his looks, or his usual dominance in any interaction. If anything, she seemed to revel in making him squirm.

And that? That only made her more fascinating.

This woman, he thought, his pulse quickening, is a challenge I can’t ignore.

Nicholas leaned back in his chair, one leg casually draped over the other, radiating an ease that didn’t quite match the sharp gleam in his eyes. “So, Hope, is this your usual haunt, or did you just stumble in here to critique the over-caffeinated Americano and pass judgment on unsuspecting dog owners?” His attempt at small talk was, in his opinion, normal—a decent attempt, even.

Camila exhaled sharply through her nose, tilting her head as her blue-grey eyes narrowed to slits. “I prefer my coffee strong and my company tolerable. Sadly, today’s offerings have been a complete fail on the latter.” She delivered the line with a tight, almost imperceptible smile.

Nicholas’s grin widened. He was unbothered. “Ouch. And here I thought we were really connecting.”

“You thought wrong,” she shot back instantly. “And just so you know, I didn’t come for an Americano. I came for some peace and quiet. But you’re doing a stellar job of wrecking that.” Her tone was pure sarcasm, not a beat late.

He tapped his fingers on the table, pretending to ponder her words with exaggerated seriousness. “Let me guess. You’re one of those people who clings to a book like it’s armor against small talk, but deep down, you’re just dying for someone to shake things up.”

Her lips twitched, the barest hint of a smirk breaking through. “Let me guess,” she said, the words sweet with irony. “You think your so-called charisma is your golden ticket to success, but in reality, it’s just a liability. You’ve mastered the fine art of talking without saying anything remotely useful. Bravo, Nick. Truly an achievement.”

Nicholas leaned in slightly, his blue eyes sparkling with something between amusement and challenge. “Ouch. Twice in one sitting. You’re merciless, Hope. Not living up to the name, are you?” His voice dipped lower, smooth as silk. “But you still haven’t told me if I’m right.”

Camila crossed her arms, her expression still unimpressed but undeniably entertained. “Why would I? Inflating your ego isn’t on my to-do list today, sorry.”

His smirk didn’t budge. “Admit it—you’re enjoying this. Just a little.”

Her eyes rolled to the ceiling, but her muttered Spanish betrayed her exasperation. “¡Dios mío, este hombre no para de hablar! ¡Es como un loro desquiciado!”

Nicholas raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Now that’s just cheating. I don’t speak Spanish. What did you say?”

Her gaze met his, a spark of mischief dancing behind her cool blue-grey eyes. She gave him a tight smile. “Nothing important. Just comparing your... ‘vibrant beauty’ to that of a parrot’s. Bold, loud, and... desperate for attention.”

His grin turned wicked. “So, parrots are the most beautiful birds to you?”

Her brows furrowed slightly at the odd question, but she humored him. “Not quite. There are plenty of birds more stunning—like golden pheasants or blue jays.”

He burst out laughing, his amusement genuine and unfiltered. “Is that so? Well, I guess I’ll have to step up my game then. If I’m going to be compared to a bird, I better be the most stunning one in the sky.”

Camila arched an eyebrow, unimpressed but highly entertained. “Good luck with that. You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you.”

Nicholas leaned in closer, his gaze unwavering. “Luck’s overrated, Hope. What I’ve got is determination. And you? You’re hands down the most fascinating thing I’ve come across this week.”

Her cheeks flushed, a reaction she quickly masked by taking a deliberate sip of her coffee. “If you think that’s a compliment, you’re sorely mistaken. You could scour the earth, dig under every rock, and still never find anyone as interesting as me in your lifetime. A week? That’s the wrong timeframe, Nick. Try eternity.”

He chuckled, clearly enjoying the fire she was throwing back at him. “Maybe. But you haven’t told me to leave yet.”

“Yet being the operative word,” she quipped, her lips curling into a sharp smirk. “But hey, the day’s still young.”

Before Nicholas could respond, Oreo let out an excited bark and launched himself onto Camila’s lap, his tiny paws scrambling for purchase as his tail wagged like a propeller. The little furball nuzzled into her, releasing an exaggerated, happy whine as though pleading for undivided attention.

Camila’s expression softened, betraying her resolve, and an involuntary smile tugged at her lips. “Well, aren’t you the sweetest thing?” she murmured, her fingers instinctively scratching behind his ears. Then, with a sly smirk, she added, “It’s a shame you’re stuck with such a lousy owner.”

Nicholas leaned back in mock offense, arms crossed dramatically. “Hey! Do you even realize how much blood, sweat, and tears I’ve invested in that dog? Training sessions, premium grooming products, countless walks in the pouring rain—and this is how he repays me? Betrayed at the first sight of a pretty girl!” He turned to Oreo, narrowing his eyes. “You dirty, naughty little traitor!”

Camila arched an eyebrow, her smirk sharpening to a razor’s edge. “Oh, spare me the melodrama. Don’t go projecting your flaws onto Oreo. He’s just smarter than you—clearly, he knows where he’ll get the better deal.”

Nicholas huffed dramatically, turning back to address Oreo as though he were the world’s greatest injustice. “You’re such a man, aren’t you? One look at her, and suddenly, I’m chopped liver. A lifetime of loyalty down the drain. Enjoy it, you Little Judas.” He cast an exaggerated, mournful glance at the pup, who happily licked Camila’s fingers.

Camila let out a low, amused laugh, cradling Oreo like a queen with her loyal subject. “You might want to take notes, Nick. Oreo’s got better instincts than you.” She threw him a teasing glance, her tone dripping with mock pity.

Nicholas’s green eyes narrowed, though the playful glint in them betrayed his enjoyment. “Cute and savage. You’re a lethal combination, Hope.”

Camila shot him a pointed look, brushing Oreo’s fur as if Nicholas weren’t even worth acknowledging. But in the quiet of her thoughts, she couldn’t help herself: What side of the bed did I wake up on today? First, I narrowly escape that pretentious British billionaire, only to end up with this ridiculously delightful dog and his equally insufferable owner? I run away from Nicholas to land... with Nick.

FLASHBACK

One Week Earlier

Camila sat at a table in Opal & Ivy, the kind of place where they don’t just serve food; they serve status on a silver platter. This was one of the city’s top-tier, “look-how-fucking-rich-I-am” establishments—sponsored by none other than the Carringtons, who were practically royalty in the world of absurd wealth.

The place was a tribute to excess. The white linen tablecloths were so starched they could probably double as weapons in a street fight. Crystal chandeliers glittered like the entire GDP of a small country, and the coffee cups? Don’t even get her started. They were so shiny, you’d swear they were made of unicorn tears and diamond dust.

Naturally, it wasn’t her kind of place.

If given a choice, Camila would have skipped this overpriced shrine to self-important taste and opted for a food truck or a hole-in-the-wall café that didn’t require a second mortgage to afford. She preferred meals that didn’t cost as much as a monthly rent and didn’t come with a side of performative affluence to make you feel like a peasant for ordering fries.

But alas, life as an heiress and successful entrepreneur meant enduring these overpriced sanctuaries of self-importance. Investors, clients, and all those lovely people who liked to pretend their bank accounts gave them a personality loved this shit. So here she was, suffering in luxury.

Despite her last name and her ever-growing empire, Camila had never been a fan of flaunting her wealth. At first, it was out of spite—a rebellion against her pretentious parents and her ever-so-perfect sister—but over time, it became her preference. She’d rather be quietly powerful than loudly wealthy. No need to prove herself to anyone. No flashy displays. No gold-plated dinners. Just pure, simple freedom.

That’s why no one, not even her parents, knew the truth. TerraNova Technologies wasn’t some random tech company she worked for. It was hers. The empire she’d built was hidden behind a thick veil of anonymity. Public appearances? Hell no. Media attention? Over her dead body. As far as the world knew, TerraNova was run by a bunch of representatives who did all the work, not by the woman in the corner booth who was far too busy rolling her eyes at everything that was supposedly impressive about the world around her.

But, of course, here she was. At the best table in the house, doing what she had to do: pitch a bunch of investors who were way too eager to shove their money into something that didn’t even exist yet.

Leaning forward, her eyes gleaming with the kind of self-assurance you only get when you’ve been told you’re a genius your entire life—and you have the proof to back it up—Camila delivered her pitch.

“Doubling down on digital isn’t just an option—it’s survival. Hell, it’s domination. We push hard enough, and we won’t just meet projections—we’ll blow them out of the water. Social media? It’s not some passing trend; it’s the new throne, and we need to grab our crown.”

She practically buzzed with excitement, her hands emphasizing every word like she was orchestrating the next great revolution in business.

The investors exchanged glances, the silent kind that screamed, Holy shit, looks like we’re about to make a boatload of money.

Meanwhile, as Camila basked in the afterglow of a pitch well done, the true royalty of the Carrington empire made their grand entrance.

Harold Carrington

A man who had built his empire from the ground up, and at seventy-eight, had accumulated so much wealth and influence that even actual royalty might feel a little insecure. Money. Connections. Power. The real MCP.

As usual, Harold arrived with his entourage: two towering bodyguards and his personal medical assistant, because when you’re a living legend, you don’t just need security—you need someone with a stethoscope. Draped in a tailor-made suit that screamed “I don’t do anything halfway,” he had the kind of presence that didn’t need announcing. His mere arrival commanded attention like a VIP red carpet rolling itself out.

But behind him came the real drama. No, not his grandson. Not even a long-lost relative. It was his grandson’s pet demon, dressed in a fur coat. Oreo.

Yes, Oreo. The infamous pet of Harold’s grandson, a grumpy little furball with the temperament of a rabid raccoon. Known for his violently aggressive nature, Oreo could reduce even the bravest men to quivering wrecks with nothing more than a single, well-timed snarl. His bark? It was the stuff of legend—enough to send grown men straight into early retirement.

As Harold stepped inside, the restaurant staff and managers jumped into action to greet him—but greet didn’t exactly mean “greet,” when Oreo was part of the package deal. It meant attempting to face the fury of a canine who had clearly been sent by some higher power to ruin their lives. The restaurant manager, all polished smiles, extended his hand to Harold. SNARL. Oreo’s growl was so visceral, it seemed to vibrate the very air. The poor manager froze mid-motion, his arm still outstretched, as if he’d just come face-to-face with an actual death sentence.

The staff, sensing an impending disaster, instinctively shuffled away, suddenly appearing like hostages negotiating with a hostage-taker. Their forced smiles? About as convincing as a kindergarten play.

Harold, ever the smooth operator, flashed a practiced grin. “It’s his way of showing affection,” he said, his tone so calm it was almost disturbing.

The staff nodded, their smiles becoming even more strained. They knew better. This wasn’t some misunderstood fluffball. This was Devil’s personal Chihuahua—all the rage, none of the charm.

But Oreo wasn’t finished.

The little menace paused mid-growl, his nose twitching once. Then twice. His entire body went rigid, like he’d just sniffed something... or someone.

But no one noticed Oreo’s sudden shift in demeanor. They were too busy avoiding his razor-sharp teeth and trying not to end up on the menu.

As Harold was escorted to a private dining area—because of course he was—his bodyguards tried to hurry the staff along, fearing that Oreo’s presence would scare their lucrative away.

They failed. Because the next thing anyone knew, Oreo was free.

The second the staff realized Oreo had slipped free, pandemonium broke out.

Waiters darted after him like their lives depended on it—ducking between tables, dodging chairs, and toppling expensive decor as if they were in the middle of an action movie. The chaos was pure Hollywood.

The restaurant erupted into a symphony of gasps and whispers, customers clutching their pearls as the pint-sized maniac zoomed through the dining area like a four-legged, fur-coated comet of destruction.

Camila, fresh from her victorious pitch and a quick restroom break, caught the telltale signs of chaos before she even reached the dining area.

Her curious gaze swept over the spectacle, an amused brow arching as she took in the scene. The first thought that crossed her mind? Circus.

Staff members were in full-on crisis mode, desperately scrambling to catch a tiny, enraged creature, all while clambering over chairs and ducking behind furniture as though evading an apex predator.

She sighed dramatically. “Naturally, it’s the terrifying humans who’re scared of the sweet, innocent Powderpuff. Makes perfect sense.”

Her lips curled into a sadistic smile. Oh, this is going to be fun, she thought to herself.

A voice snapped her from her musings. “Don’t let the cuteness fool you. This dog bites first and asks questions later.”

Camila turned, spotting one of the restaurant managers awkwardly crouched behind a giant potted plant. The poor man was doing his best to blend into the foliage, but the attempt was pitiful. She rolled her eyes. “Maybe he bites because he’s got a taste for rotten things. Seems like everyone these days has a rotten soul and an even stinkier attitude.”

Her tone was razor sharp, biting, and the manager visibly paled. Clearly, she wasn’t talking about the dog.

Camila ignored the panicked whispers around her, walking straight towards Oreo, who was still barking up a storm, clearly ready to take a chunk out of whoever dared approach.

“Get me a bowl of water for him,” she ordered, not bothering to glance at the stunned waitstaff. They stared at her as if she had just proposed hugging a rabid wolf.

“Miss Serrano…” One waiter, the one who always served her, hesitated, his voice wavering like he was bracing for an explosion. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Camila didn’t blink at their horrified stares. “Relax. I’m practically a dog whisperer.”

As she took another step forward, Oreo sniffed the air cautiously. His barks, once sharp and relentless, suddenly stopped. His beady eyes locked onto hers, an odd flicker of curiosity and hesitation flashing in their depths.

Then, without warning, Oreo lunged.

The staff collectively gasped, already preparing to yank Camila away from the tiny terror. But she stood her ground, fearless and unfazed.

To their absolute shock, Oreo didn’t sink his teeth into her. Instead, he flung himself at her, all wagging tail and unrestrained excitement, tackling her as if she were his long-lost soulmate.

The entire restaurant froze.

Waiters, who had been seconds away from prying the “violent” dog off her, now stared in disbelief as Oreo licked her face frantically, his tiny body vibrating with joy.

“Whoa, easy there, buddy!” Camila laughed, steadying herself as the overenthusiastic dog continued his assault of wet kisses. “You’re lucky you’re a weird little canine. If you were human, I’d be pressing charges for harassment.”

The staff was still processing the impossible sight—Oreo, the legendary terror of Opal & Ivy, turning into a cuddly ball of affection in Camila’s arms.

She scratched behind his ears, scolding him gently. “Why’d you ditch your human, huh? Don’t you know it’s dangerous for cute dogs and pretty girls out here? Naughty boy.”

To the staff’s utter astonishment, Oreo sat obediently at her feet, his eyes wide and pleading as if he knew he’d just gotten away with murder. He let out a pitiful whimper, apologizing in the only way he knew how.

Finally snapping out of their daze, the waiter hurried over with the requested bowl of water. Camila set it down, and Oreo drank with the composure of a dog who had just discovered that hydration was, indeed, life-changing.

The staff exchanged wary glances, still unsure whether they had just witnessed a miracle... or witchcraft.

Camila continued her one-sided conversation with Oreo, smoothing his fur. “You’re definitely a troublemaker. But hey, I get it—spending all your time with a bunch of uptight, stiff people? I’d act out too.”

Oreo gave a small bark, as if agreeing, making Camila laugh.

Across the restaurant, Harold stood watching, arms crossed, intrigued by the unlikely bond forming between the girl and his dog. He hadn’t moved forward to reclaim Oreo yet—he was too fascinated by what he was witnessing. Finally, he thought. Someone who can tame the wild, unruly Oreo.

He stopped one of the waiters, slipping him a crisp hundred-dollar bill, and leaned in, voice low. “Do you happen to know the lady taking care of my dog?”

The waiter, now significantly more cheerful, nodded eagerly. “That’s Miss Serrano. She’s a regular. Been coming here for the past two and a half years. I’m the one who usually serves her.”

Harold raised a brow, his interest piqued. “She comes here often?”

“Yes, sir. But it’s mostly for business lunches and dinners.” The waiter replied politely.

Harold hummed thoughtfully, impressed. He glanced back at Camila, still lounging with Oreo, scratching his ears like she had known the dog for years.

As she continued enjoying her moment with Oreo, her phone buzzed with an alert—her next meeting was scheduled. Camila sighed, patting Oreo’s head. “Alright, buddy. I’ve gotta go. Some urgent stuff to take care of.”

Oreo let out a small whimper, as if he too knew it was time to say goodbye. For a moment, even Camila’s stone heart softened.

“Maybe it’s not goodbye,” she said softly, fingers brushing through his fur. “Just a ‘see you later,’ buddy. Sound good?”

Oreo’s tail wagged happily in response.

With a smile, she waved to the waiter. “Do you know where his owner is?” she asked, her voice now back to its usual no-nonsense tone, the exact opposite of how she’d spoken to the dog.

The waiter nodded, clearly used to her abruptness.

Camila scooped Oreo into her arms for one last hug before setting him down. “Go on with him, alright? He’ll get you back to your caretaker. And no running off this time, got it?”

Oreo let out a resigned grunt, but, to everyone’s amazement, trotted obediently after the waiter. He paused at the entrance, glanced back at Camila one last time, and followed the instructions without a single tantrum.

Harold grinned, feeling a rare sense of satisfaction. Finally, someone who could handle Oreo. He chuckled to himself. Maybe… just maybe, she can handle Nicholas, too. The master’s not that different from the pet.

For four relentless days, Harold Carrington’s network worked like a well-oiled machine, peeling back the layers of Camila Serrano’s life with surgical precision. They unearthed everything—her upbringing, her education, the businesses she built from nothing but sheer audacity. They even tracked down former colleagues, exasperated acquaintances, and anyone who had ever crossed her path. No detail was too insignificant, no conversation too trivial.

The deeper Harold dug, the more intrigued he became. Camila was carved from the same rare marble as his grandson—sharp, unyielding, and unapologetically witty. But while Nicholas had been born with power nestled in his cradle, Camila had clawed her way up under the crushing weight of impossible expectations.

Her parents, status-obsessed and emotionally vacant, had spent years molding her into their vision of the perfect daughter. Yet no matter how much she achieved, she was always cast in the shadow of their golden child—Violeta. The flawless, polished, poised, picture-perfect Serrano heir. Everything Camila was not.

Harold’s protective instincts stirred, but he pushed them aside. Camila didn’t need saving. She had been protecting herself just fine for years.

Instead, he played his cards with precision. Knowing her parents’ insatiable hunger for prestige, he let whispers of a potential alliance between the Carringtons and the Serranos slither into the right ears. And, like clockwork, they took the bait, sinking their claws in with the desperation of social climbers clinging to their last rung. Within hours, they accepted the proposal as if they had orchestrated it themselves, eager to tether their legacy to one of the most powerful families in their gilded circle.

That evening, Camila’s phone rang.

She glanced at the caller ID and immediately knew—this wasn’t a social call. Her parents never called unless they wanted something.

With a sigh heavy enough to shift the tectonic plates, she answered.

Her father didn’t bother with pleasantries. “We’ve found a prospective match for you.” he announced, his tone as warm as a corporate memo.

Camila blinked. “Excuse me?”

Her mother sighed heavily, as though speaking to an imbecile. Of course, she’s an employee with some low-paying job, Chloe Serrano mused. With her IQ this deficient and lack of comprehension, what else would she be doing?

“You’ll be meeting Nicholas Carrington to discuss marriage,” Chloe said slowly, enunciating every syllable, as if her daughter needed remedial lessons in English. Her irritation seeping through the receiver.

Camila nearly choked. “Nicholas Carrington?” A humorless laugh burst from her lips. “As in the Nicholas Carrington? The man is practically a walking tabloid. Do you have any idea how many scandals he’s had? The only reason he’s not an internet meme is because he’s rich enough to keep his face out of it. And you want me—your own daughter—to discuss marriage with that conniving man-whore?”

Her mother exhaled sharply, unimpressed by the outburst. “We’re not interested in your feelings on the matter, Camila. It’s a done deal.”

“A deal?” Camila echoed, disbelief morphing into fury. She scoffed. “So that’s what I’ve been reduced to? An overpriced cow being sold off for a business merger?”

Her mother clicked her tongue in annoyance. “Enough with the dramatics. You should be grateful for this opportunity. You’ve embarrassed us for years.”

Camila’s grip tightened around the phone. “Embarrassed you? Because I chose to earn my own living instead of sucking up to a husband?”

“Watch your mouth,” Marquez Serrano warned, his voice as sharp as the punishments he used to dole out when she was a child.

And then, right on cue, came the comparison.

“You could learn a thing or two from Violeta,” he continued, his disappointment thick in every syllable. “She always does what’s expected of her. She’s married, successful, a managing director of Cara Fashions. She’s thriving. Meanwhile, you’re out here acting like a commoner with no place in the world.”

Camila bit the inside of her cheek so hard she nearly tasted blood.

Then, as if their condescension wasn’t already suffocating, her mother added in that falsely sympathetic tone, “We’re acting in your best interest, Camila. We’re not your enemies, despite what you may think. Do you honestly believe we’ll be here to support you forever?”

Camila exhaled sharply through her nose. They still think I depend on them. As if she hadn’t cut financial ties years ago. As if she were still that desperate little girl scrambling for their approval.

“I don’t need your money,” she bit out, her voice like a blade.

Her mother sighed, long and exaggerated. “Yes, yes, you’ve been so independent, haven’t you?” she drawled. “Working at… what was it? Some tech company? A modest job, I suppose, but certainly not enough to sustain the lifestyle you’re accustomed to.”

Camila rolled her eyes so hard they nearly left orbit.

Right. The tech company. The billion-dollar empire they still believed was some glorified assistant job.

Then came her father’s voice—steady, measured, and far more dangerous.

“You might not need our money, Camila,” he said, his words slow, deliberate. “But let’s not pretend your so-called job is as secure as you think. A few calls, a little pressure on the right people… we could easily find out exactly what you do and who you work for. Your employer wouldn’t be too thrilled with any distractions, would they?”

A chill prickled down Camila’s spine. Not because their threats scared her—she had weathered worse—but because they couldn’t know.

She didn’t work for anyone. She was her own boss.

If they ever discovered what she had built—what she had accomplished without their name, their influence, their money—they would either exploit it or burn it to the ground.

They didn’t know yet. But Camila had to admit—if they truly wanted to, they could find out. A few whispers in the right ears, a few favors exchanged, and the anonymity she had worked so hard to maintain could unravel.

Her mother hummed, almost lazily. “The tech industry is so delicate, isn’t it? A single rumor, a small misstep, and poof—reputation, shattered. What a pity.”

Camila’s fingers curled into a fist. And there it is. The unspoken threat. Her parents never bluffed. They never needed to. She had learned that lesson the hard way.

Her father sighed, already bored. “We’ve arranged a meeting with Nicholas Carrington. You will attend. You will be on your best behavior. And you will not embarrass us by refusing.”

Camila forced her expression into a blank mask, though her pulse thundered in her ears.

She could fight them.

She wanted to fight them.

But she wouldn’t risk everything she had built just to make a point.

Instead, she took a slow, steady breath, straightened her spine, and said coolly, “When and where?”

Her mother chuckled, satisfied. “Such a good girl.”

Her father, ever the sadist, wasn’t done. “There are conditions.”

Camila arched a brow, biting back the urge to roll her eyes. Of course there are.

“First,” her mother said, voice sickeningly sweet, “this meeting is a formality. Nicholas will decide, but if he agrees, you will accept. There will be no negotiations, no tantrums, and absolutely no refusals.

Camila’s nails bit into her palm. “So I don’t actually have a say?”

“You do,” her father said smoothly. “As long as it’s ‘yes.’”

Camila exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to break something.

“And second,” her mother added, “you will behave. No sarcasm, no sharp tongue, no attitude. We cannot have you embarrassing us with that… personality of yours.”

Camila let out a slow, deliberate breath.

“So, to sum it up,” she drawled with a bright saccharine smile, “you want me to sit there, smile, nod and play the perfect, obedient wife-to-be?”

Her father’s voice was ice. “Exactly.”

After a long pause, Camila exhaled and pressed her fingers to her temple. “Fine.”

Silence stretched.

Then, her father’s voice, calm and victorious. “Good.”

Her mother hummed, pleased. “Oh, and darling—wear something appropriate.”

Camila stared at her phone, resisting the urge to hurl it against the wall.

She had lost this round. But the war? The war was far from over.

If Camila had endured a sleepless night, Nicholas Carrington’s morning wasn’t shaping up to be any better.

The Carrington estate was bathed in the soft light of a London morning, the kind that turned glass into gold and marble into something ethereal. In the vast dining room, where high ceilings and gleaming floors whispered of old money, the air was thick with the scent of honey jasmine tea and warm biscuits. Nicholas sat at the long, polished table, his emerald-green eyes flicking over the screen of his tablet—though his attention was elsewhere.

Under the table, his fingers absentmindedly stroked Oreo’s fur. The dog, much like his owner, exuded an air of quiet arrogance, indifferent to the world unless it suited him.

Across from Nicholas, Harold Carrington sipped his tea with the patience of a man who had lived long enough to master the art of waiting. He had raised Nicholas—watched him transform from a sharp-eyed boy to a man with walls higher than the estate itself. Life had weathered him —loss, betrayal, and years of leeches disguised as allies had left their mark. Nicholas trusted few and loved even fewer.

But Harold had never been one to surrender easily.

Just as Nicholas turned another page on his tablet, Harold spoke, his tone deceptively casual.

“I’ve been thinking.” He set his cup down with deliberate ease. “It’s time you met someone.”

“Another one of the blind dates you’ve set up for me?” Nicholas raised an unimpressed brow.

Harold chuckled, mischief twinkling in his eyes. “Oh, stop being so dramatic. It’s not a blind date. It’s just a meeting. No big deal.”

Nicholas snorted. “Same difference.”

Harold leaned back in his chair, fingers steepling together. “Her name’s Camila. A Spanish heiress. A charming young woman with a sharp mind.” He paused, watching Nicholas’ reaction—or lack thereof. “I have a feeling you two might get along.”

At that, Nicholas finally looked up, one brow arching in dry amusement. “And why, exactly, would I want to meet her?” His voice was rich with sarcasm. “I’m not in the market for a wife, nor am I particularly interested in entertaining some ‘charming young woman’, for that matter. I have a company to run and a thousand other things I’d rather do.”

Harold didn’t flinch. “No one’s asking you to marry her. Just meet her.”

Nicholas let out a sharp exhale, rubbing his temple. “Right. Because the last few you set me up with weren’t absolute nightmares.” He leveled his grandfather with a look. “Let me guess—she’s ‘not like the others’?”

Harold smirked right back. “You wound me.”

Nicholas exhaled through his nose, slumping back in his chair. “Gramps, do you know how many times I’ve had to sit through dinner while some socialite bats her lashes at me like I’m her golden ticket?”

Harold took another sip of tea, entirely unbothered. “Maybe this time will be different.”

Nicholas laughed, the sound dry and devoid of amusement. “You mean maybe this time I’ll miraculously fall in love and live happily ever after?” He shook his head. “Not happening.”

Harold set his cup down with a quiet clink, fixing his grandson with a look that Nicholas knew all too well—the kind that meant he was about to lose this argument.

“You’ll gladly spend the night with women you don’t care about, but you can’t spare one afternoon for your own grandfather?” Harold’s voice was light, but the pointed edge was unmistakable.

Nicholas sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Gramps, how many times do I have to spell this out? The ‘billion-dollar playboy’ the media loves to gossip about? That’s not me. They wouldn’t know Nicholas Carrington from a random guy on the street unless I shoved my ID in their faces.” He shot his grandfather a pointed look. “And for the record, I always have time for you. What I don’t have time for are the so-called ‘charity cases’ you insist on parading in front of me.”

Harold’s expression softened. “Nicholas, I’m not setting you up with a charity case. I just think it’s time you met someone outside of boardrooms and power plays.”

Nicholas nudged Oreo with his foot, watching as the dog blinked lazily before flopping back into sleep. He let out a long breath. “Oreo, you’re the only one who gets me.”

Harold chuckled. “At least Oreo doesn’t make excuses.”

Nicholas smirked, scratching behind the dog’s ear. “Yeah, well, Oreo also doesn’t try to marry me off.”

Harold’s amusement remained, but his voice took on that infuriatingly persuasive tone. “One month. That’s all I ask. If she’s interested after your first meeting, give it a chance.”

Nicholas stiffened. “A month?” He looked at his grandfather like he’d suggested public execution. “This sounds like the setup for a bad rom-com.”

Harold smirked. “You don’t have to like it. But you might just be surprised.”

Nicholas exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. He knew Harold too well. The old man had mastered the art of getting what he wanted—usually by making Nicholas feel like a stubborn child for resisting. Seeing no way out, he gave in.

“Fine,” he bit out. “But if she so much as suggests a beach wedding with pink bridesmaid dresses or getting us matching monogrammed towels, I’m out.”

Harold’s deep, knowing laughter filled the room. “Deal. But something tells me you’ll find her intriguing.”

Nicholas huffed. “Fine. But don’t expect a miracle.”

Harold simply sipped his tea, the very picture of smug satisfaction. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Camila paced the length of her bedroom like a caged tiger, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor. She had outmaneuvered boardroom bullies, sidestepped social landmines, and negotiated deals with men twice her age who still thought calling her sweetheart was a power move.

And yet, here she was—completely outmatched.

By her own damn parents.

Her mother’s voice hissed through her mind, a casual remark wrapped in a thinly veiled threat.

“The tech industry is so delicate, isn’t it? One wrong rumor, one misstep, and suddenly, no one trusts you anymore. A pity, really.”

Camila curled her fingers into a tight fist. The message had been clear—refusing this meeting wasn’t an option.

She had spent the better part of the day crafting a list of escape plans, from suddenly developing a mysterious and very contagious illness to staging a last-minute business emergency. But her parents weren’t stupid. They would see right through it. They had raised her, after all. Every excuse crumbled before it even fully formed.

Then, somewhere between pacing and plotting, a devious little loophole revealed itself.

If she couldn’t say no… then he could.

If Nicholas Carrington—the golden playboy of London—rejected her, then her parents couldn’t fault her. They’d drop the matter, and she’d be free to live her life without being someone’s decorative wife-to-be.

Now, all she needed was an accomplice.

She snatched her phone off the nightstand and dialed.

Sophia picked up after one ring, her voice groggy yet mildly threatening. “Camy, this better be life-or-death. I just finished my report, I have a massive case to win tomorrow, and I was all set to sleep like a responsible adult for once.”

Camila smirked. “Trust me, Soph, this is next-level.”

Thirty minutes later, Sophia sat curled in an armchair, cradling her latte like it held the meaning of life. She stared at Camila, wide-eyed, looking very much like a confused Bambi.

“So let me get this straight,” she said, slowly. “Your parents are forcing you to meet Nicholas Carrington, London’s golden playboy, and if he approves, you’re automatically stuck in this archaic, Victorian-era marriage plot? That’s not just unfair—that’s a scandal.”

Camila huffed, crossing her arms. “Oh, it gets worse. They actually expect me to act like some brainless, submissive trophy wife-in-training. Can you believe that?”

Sophia nearly choked on her coffee. “So, basically, they want you to keep your mouth shut?” Camila nodded. She snorted. “Good luck scaring him away—because let’s be honest, Camy, you’re not exactly hard on the eyes.”

Camila smirked. “And that is exactly the problem. I’ve already been explicitly warned not to unleash my sarcasm and wit because, apparently, I’ve scared off one too many of their subtle matchmaking setups before.”

Sophia took a long sip of her coffee. “So, what’s the plan? Because I assume you do have one.”

“That’s exactly why you’re here!” Camila leaned forward, her eyes gleaming. “You’re going to be my watered-down clone and scare Nicholas Carrington so bad he’ll be halfway to another country before dinner.”

Sophia blinked. “Me?”

“Yes, you.”

Sophia set down her coffee. “Why would I do it when you could effortlessly crush his ego in under five minutes?”

Camila sighed, giving her a knowing look. “Oh, please. Don’t you know me by now? I’m unfiltered chaos. The moment I lay eyes on him, I’ll make some offhanded remark about his inflated ego or his overpriced shoes, and boom—before I even get my coffee, my parents will have me engaged to him out of spite.”

Sophia exhaled through her nose. “So, you want me to be you, but… slightly worse?”

“Exactly. Just be yourself, but with a twist.” Camila waved a hand in the air. “Be obnoxious. Slightly unhinged. Just weird enough to make him want to reject me, but not so weird that he runs straight to my parents, crying foul.”

Sophia’s eyes widened. “Wait. Are we talking full weird? Like, me eating my food in an oddly specific way? Or just… blatantly rude?”

Camila grinned. “Both.”

Sophia burst into laughter. “This is going to be fun. And I’ll text you updates.”

Camila nodded solemnly. “Just remember, if he rejects you, I’m free. But don’t give him any ammo to report back to my parents. Subtlety is key.”

Sophia saluted. “Got it, Queen Camila. I’ll handle it.”

Camila clapped her hands together. “Perfect. You’re meeting the billionaire groom at The Velvet Room for breakfast, day after tomorrow. I’ll be across the street at the café, just in case things go south.”

Sophia lifted her latte in a toast. “Here’s to scaring off billionaires.”

Camila clinked her coffee against hers, a victorious gleam in her eyes. “And to getting me gloriously single.”

Somewhere, in another part of London, Nicholas swirled the ice in his whiskey glass, lounging lazily across the leather couch in his penthouse, exuding the kind of smugness that made Daniel want to throw something at him. Preferably something heavy.

Daniel, arms crossed, leveled him with an unimpressed stare. “So let me get this straight. You’re being forced into a date—”

“Arranged meeting,” Nicholas corrected, still swirling his drink like he was auditioning for a whiskey commercial.

Daniel rolled his eyes. “Right. And instead of just going, being mildly tolerable for an hour, and calling it a day, you’ve decided to craft an entire master plan to dodge it?”

Nicholas set his glass down with a smirk. “Daniel, you say ‘mildly tolerable’ as if I could ever be anything less than charmingly insufferable.”

Daniel blinked. “Wait, what? I don’t even… What are you trying to say right now?”

Nicholas let out a dramatic sigh. “The problem, dear friend, is that I’m just too good-looking.”

Daniel stared. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Nicholas ignored him, leaning forward with the air of a man revealing some great cosmic truth. “It’s happened more times than I can count. I could be the worst version of myself—mock her relentlessly, spill coffee on her, maybe even insult her choice of perfume—and she’d still walk away fantasizing about my jawline. It’s a curse, really.”

Daniel burst out laughing. “You’re unbelievable.” He shook his head. “So, what? You’re just going to be an absolute nightmare until she walks away in a haze of attraction?”

Nicholas shrugged. “Essentially.” Then, with a wolfish grin, he added, “But if she doesn’t reject me, my grandfather will keep pushing. So, I need her to say no.”

Daniel frowned. “Wait. Your plan is to get her to reject you?”

“Bingo.” Nicholas snapped his fingers. “One brutal rejection, and this entire charade is over. No more arranged meetings. No more meddling. Peace at last.”

Daniel shook his head. “Yeah, I don’t know, man. This sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.”

Nicholas chuckled. “Since when has that ever stopped me?”

“Fine,” Daniel muttered, exhaling heavily. “But how exactly do you plan to pull this off?”

Nicholas’ smirk widened. “I need a decoy.”

Daniel narrowed his eyes. “A decoy?”

“Yes.” Nicholas stretched out like a king issuing a decree. “Someone to take my place. Someone who will make the date so dreadfully dull that she’ll run for the hills.”

Daniel’s suspicion deepened. “…Who exactly do you have in mind?”

Nicholas didn’t miss a beat. “You.”

Daniel choked on his drink. “Me? You want me to be your stand-in?”

“You heard me.” Nicholas stretched his arms behind his head. “Think about it—you’re just average enough to be forgettable. And that’s exactly what I need.”

Daniel scoffed. ”Average?”

“Fine. Moderately handsome, but in a way that wouldn’t make women write poetry about you.” Nicholas gave a satisfied shrug. “Unlike me, obviously.”

Daniel groaned, rubbing his temples. “You’re an asshole.”

“I prefer strategic thinker.” Nicholas grinned, completely unbothered.

Daniel stared at him like he was trying to decide whether to throttle him or just let karma do its thing. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are.” Nicholas winked. “You’ll go in, be mind-numbingly dull, and she’ll reject me so thoroughly that my grandfather won’t even think about arranging another meeting.”

Daniel sighed. “I can’t believe I’m actually agreeing to this.” He pointed a finger at Nicholas. “If this blows up in my face, I will kill you.”

“Oh, you’ll love it,” Nicholas teased. “I mean, don’t you live for these kinds of awkward, borderline painful encounters?”

Daniel glared.

Nicholas smirked. “You’ll go to The Velvet Room the day after tomorrow. While you’re inside, I’ll be across the street in a café, enjoying my freedom and waiting for the good news.” He stretched, looking sinfully pleased with himself.

Daniel exhaled. “I already regret this.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.” Nicholas grinned. “That’s my job.”

FLASHBACK ENDS

“I still don’t understand why you insist on shattering my peace just by existing in my presence. What do you want, Nick?” Camila shot Nicholas an irritated look, barely suppressing the exhaustion creeping up her spine. It had been over an hour of relentless back-and-forth, and she was starting to think the man thrived on being a persistent nuisance.

Nicholas, on the other hand, looked downright entertained. “You intrigue me,” he admitted, eyes gleaming with amusement. “You’re not like the usual vultures and hyenas who just see dollar signs when they look at me.”

Camila arched a brow. Oh? So he wanted to play games?

Fine. I can play. And I definitely can play better.

“Oh, trust me, I’m exactly one of those vultures and hyenas,” she purred, lips curving into a slow, sultry smirk. “I married some old conglomerate for his wealth, and now I’m searching for a boy toy to satisfy my insatiable need for a wild, rough—” she dragged out the last words deliberately “—fuck.” Her voice dripped with seduction, deliberately provocative and designed to send him running.

But instead of recoiling, Nicholas threw his head back and laughed. Deep, unbothered, utterly amused. The sound sent an annoying little shiver down her spine. Screw him

“Sweetheart, if that were true, you’d already be in my penthouse.” He leaned in, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I’ve dropped enough hints for you to pounce by now. So tell me… aren’t you even a little bit affected by my charm?”

Camila met his gaze, and for the briefest second, something wickedly hot curled in her stomach.

Oh, hell no.

He really was that good-looking—the kind that made other women forget their own names. But not me. Nope. Not happening.

Her body, however, wasn’t getting the memo.

But that ego of his—it was both an aphrodisiac and a bucket of ice-cold water.

She crossed her arms, tilting her head. “Charm? Oh, I must’ve overlooked it. All I see is a giant ego taking up so much space that this massive café feels like a claustrophobic little box.”

Nicholas chuckled, completely unfazed. “You might be the first woman to insult me like this, and I’ve got to say—I’m starting to enjoy it.”

Camila sighed, glancing at Oreo before checking her phone. It had been over an hour and a half. Shouldn’t Sophia have scared the British billionaire off by now? Where was the update she promised?

Just as she was about to message her, a notification flashed across her screen.

Code Red. Get here, ASAP.

Camila’s breath hitched. Shit.

At the same time, Nicholas’ phone chimed. He glanced at the message—and instantly paled.

Dude, we’re screwed. Just get here, now!

Their eyes met, tension crackling. Whatever this was, it wasn’t good.

Camila was the first to move, standing up and collecting her coat. She bent down to scratch Oreo behind the ears. “It was great seeing you again, Oreo. Hopefully, we’ll meet again sometime.” Her voice softened. Then, as she straightened, her tone turned sharp. “Clearly, the same sentiment does not extend to you.”

Nicholas smirked. “And here I was, hoping I’d charmed you enough to finally get your number.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Keep dreaming.”

She turned toward the door, practically marching out of the café. To her immense annoyance, Nicholas followed.

“Nick, I don’t hand out my number on the first meeting,” she snapped as they crossed the street. “Following me won’t change that.”

Nicholas grinned, matching her pace. “Ah, so this is your subtle way of agreeing to a second meeting? One where I might actually score your number?” His voice dripped with smug amusement. Am I actually working to get a woman’s number? This is new. Usually, they slip it to me before I even ask.

Unbelievable. Camila shot him a glare. “Do you ever shut up?”

“Rarely,” he admitted, completely unrepentant.

They reached the restaurant entrance, sharing a look of mutual confusion. And then—

“Camila!”

Sophia’s urgent voice rang out.

“Nicholas!”

Daniel’s panicked call followed immediately after.

Their heads snapped toward their respective friends, then back at each other, wide-eyed.

Nicholas was the first to speak. “What the hell is going on?” His voice dropped an octave, playfulness replaced by raw authority.

Why the fuck is his serious voice turning me on? Camila cursed inwardly.

Daniel, looking borderline hysterical, threw up his hands. “We’re busted!” His voice wavered. “Margarette showed up, saw me, and called me by my real name! Then she recognized this girl I thought was Camila—but turns out it’s Sophia—and she says, ‘Oh, hey Sophia! Where’s your rude friend, Camila?’” He reenacted the scene in an exaggerated, high-pitched voice.

Camila’s jaw clenched. “That bitch! She couldn’t just mind her own business, could she?” She exhaled sharply, fingers twitching like she was mentally drafting an elaborate revenge plan. “I swear, I’m going to make her regret ruining my per—”

A soft nudge against her leg.

Camila looked down. Oreo stared up at her with wide, unimpressed eyes, as if saying, Calm down, drama queen.

She let out a slow breath, pressing her lips together.

Then, across from her, Nicholas blinked. Once. Twice. His gaze darted between Daniel—who looked one bad decision away from faking his own death—and Camila, whose irritation was slowly morphing into reluctant amusement.

And then, realization slammed into both of them.

Oh, shit.

They hadn’t just sabotaged their own setups.

They had sabotaged each other’s.

Nicholas exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Camila pinched the bridge of her nose. “Of course, it’s you.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“Wait, hold on—you’re Camila?” Nicholas’ voice lacked its usual arrogance. For the first time since she met him, he sounded genuinely thrown.

Camila gave him a flat, unimpressed stare. “Hello to you too, Mr. Slow Einstein.”

Nicholas’ lips twitched. Well, well. The old man was right this time. This girl was able to surprise. And pleasantly so.

Daniel, still recovering from shock, stared at Nicholas like he’d grown a second head. Did she just… insult him? No woman ever spoke to Nicholas like that. Hell, most people barely spoke to him above a whisper. And Nicholas? He never tolerated people raising their voices at him, let alone throwing insults. Yet here he was, basking in Camila’s sharp words like they were a luxury massage.

Nicholas turned to her, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his lips.

“Ah. You’re the woman my grandfather wants to set me up with.”

Camila stiffened. Her heartbeat quickened for entirely different reasons now.

Nicholas extended his hand, looking far too amused. ”Nicholas Edmund Carrington. Pleasure to meet you.”

Camila eyed his hand like she could set it on fire with sheer willpower. Then, begrudgingly, she took it.

“Camila Hope Serrano,” she said coolly. “And I assure you, the pleasure is all yours."