So much for that plan.
Five minutes later, the car slows to a stop. I look out the window—and my stomach drops.
“The Mayfair?” I turn on him. “Why are we here?”
He tucks his phone into his jacket pocket, his voice smooth as silk. “Oh, didn’t I say? I changed the venue.”
The Mayfair isthetop-tier lunch spot. The kind where people wear tailored suits and order Champagne before noon. Not the kind where anyone turns up in joggers and trainers.
He watches me realise this, the corner of his mouth lifting.
My pulse spikes as I glance down at my pristine trainers, every ounce of confidence I had evaporating. I close my eyes, inhale deeply, and try to summon calm.
“Something wrong, Leoni?” Warren asks, the grin clear in his voice.
I shake my head, forcing composure I definitely don’t feel. “Not at all,” I mutter. “I’mthrilled.”
Anthony opens the door, and I hesitate before stepping out, pulling my new furry coat tight around me to hide the strip of bare skin at my waist. The air is cold and sharp, biting at my nerves as we approach the restaurant entrance.
Inside, it’s worse than I imagined—polished marble floors, chandeliers that probably cost more than my rent for a year, the kind of place where even the air smells expensive. My stomach twists.Why couldn’t I just buy something normal?Christ, I’m so stubborn, and now it’s come back to bite me.
The maître d glides forward with a practised smile. “Mr Baxter,” she says warmly, before her gaze drops to me. Her eyes widen, and I swear I hear her gasp softly.
“You’ll have to excuse her,” Warren says smoothly, slipping into that smug, professional tone I hate. “She’s paid by the hour, and I didn’t have time to brief her on the dress code.”
My mouth drops open. “Excuse me?” I hiss, glaring at him, but the maître d only arches one perfect brow, clearly fighting a smirk.
Warren continues, unbothered. “We haven’t booked a room. We’ll take that business downtown instead. But I’d appreciate you bending the rules for me just this once and allowing us to dine here as planned.”
A strangled noise escapes my throat before I can stop it. My face burns, heat crawling up my neck.
The maître d recovers quickly, offering a polite smile as she gestures for us to follow. “Of course, Mr Baxter. Right this way.”
I keep my head down as she leads us through the restaurant. Every person we pass seems to turn. Men in tailored suits, women in pencil skirts and pearls—each one of them staring, judging.
I canfeelthe whispers trailing behind me.
By the time we reach the table at the back, I want to sink straight into the floor.
Warren pulls out my chair, and I lower myself into it carefully. Thankfully, my back faces the rest of the restaurant, and I let out a quiet breath of relief.
Warren shrugs out of his tailored jacket, passing it to the maître d. “You can’t eat lunch in your coat,” he says dryly.
I glare at him but slowly peel the fluffy jacket from my shoulders like a sulky teenager. The cool air hits my exposed skin, and I instantly regret every decision that led me here.
“My guest has arrived. Get ready,” he says, looking past me.
Dread pools in my stomach.Right. The guest.
Warren stands, his expression sliding effortlessly into something charming and false. “Nancy, you look stunning,” he says, his voice smooth as silk.
The woman approaching is everything I’m not — tall, graceful, dark hair cascading over one shoulder, wearing a fitted red dress that looks like it was made for her. She moves like she knows people are watching.
Warren kisses her cheek, and she laughs softly, the sound delicate but deliberate. Up close, she’s flawless—warm bronze skin, eyes that miss nothing, and a red lips that curves into something sharp as her gaze shifts to me.
“My god, Warren,” she says sweetly, but her tone is poison. “What did you bring to lunch?”
I fight the urge to sink under the table.
