Page 36 of Don't Date Your Nemesis

Silence stretched between us, and it wasn’t awkward or weird since we had known each other for almost two decades.

I knew he was waiting for me to tell him something.

Finally, I spoke up. “It was an accident.”

Ethan huffed a laugh, and it was sharp and disbelieving. “Of fucking course, it was an accident. What? Did you accidentally throw the ring on her finger?”

“It’s—no! It’s just, her ring fell, and I grabbed it for her⁠—”

“On one knee.”

“And gave it to her⁠—”

“While she was crying.”

“And there happened to be paparazzi⁠—”

“Who also caught the huge fucking hickey on her neck,” he said, his voice climbing an octave. “What were you trying to do? Eat her?!”

“I did,” I mumbled.

“What was that?”

“We fucked up, okay?” I rubbed my face, staring at the ceiling. “We fucked up spectacularly, and now we’re engaged and Xavier’s thrilled, because apparently this fixes my playboy image. And Deepika’s publicist is thrilled, because it makes her look stable, and neither of us can figure out how to get out of it without making things worse.” I rambled out the everything as briefly as possible.

Ethan didn’t reply, but I could hear him sigh. His particular sigh, which meant he was processing, trying to figure out how to be supportive while also wanting to strangle me.

I felt a stab of guilt. Deepika was Kiara’s cousin, so this affected them too.

“How’s Kiara handling it?” I asked quietly.

“You know how she is,” he said with another sigh. “She talked to Deepika, told me it’s fine, that she’s happy for her, that this is romantic or whatever. But…” He paused. “She won’t tell me if it’s bothering her. I can see it in her face… she wants to believe it’s real, but she knows you two. She knows your history.”

Fuck.

“I’m sorry,” I said, my words sincere. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“I know.” His voice softened slightly. “Just... don’t hurt her, okay? Deepika’s been through enough with the Yash situation. Kiara’s worried about her.”

“I won’t. I mean—it’s fake. We’re just playing along until after your wedding, then we’ll break up quietly.”

“Yeah, because fake relationships always end quietly and reasonably,” he said, and the sarcasm was back, which meant we were okay. “Especially between two people who’ve hated each other’s guts since childhood.”

“We don’t hate each other anymore,” I said, then immediately regretted it.

“Oh?” he asked. “What do you call it then?”

“Mutual... tolerance?”

“Is that what we’re calling it? Because the hickey suggests⁠—”

“We got drunk and shared a room!” I said. “She’s still judgmental, self-righteous, and holds grudges like it’s an Olympic sport. Plus, she still hates me. So… the feeling’s mutual.”

Sort of.

Ethan hummed and replied, “Is it? Because I can hear the⁠—”

“Moving on!” I interrupted him. “New topic. How’s retirement treating you?”