Fake Date, Real Fate-Chapter 119: Uninvited Hands

The mall walkthrough wrapped up with a blur of polite goodbyes and tight handshakes.

Mr. Johnson kept his distance after that last exchange, suddenly very interested in talking to literally anyone else.

We slid into Adrien’s car in silence, the door shutting with a soft click and he started driving.

I adjusted my seatbelt, pretending to scroll through my phone.

"So," I said sweetly, not looking at him, "She’s my woman, huh?"

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even glance my way.

"Contextually accurate," he replied smoothly.

I snorted. ""Seriously? Not even a twitch? You just dropped that like it was a weather update."

"Should I apologize for being factual?"

"I mean..." I tilted my head toward him. "You basically growled it. In public. To a client. During a walkthrough."

Still no reaction. Just a slight tightening of his grip on the wheel.

"So possessive, Mr. Walton," I drawled. "Next time you might as well toss me over your shoulder and declare me Walton property."

"Don’t tempt me," he murmured, finally glancing over. "I’m in the mood."

That shut me up. For three seconds.

Then I recovered, narrowed my eyes. "You don’t get to say that like it’s rational."

"You started it."

"I was being professional."

"You were blushing."

"Because someone couldn’t keep his hand off my lower back."

He looked at me slower this time. Lazier. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

"I was guiding you."

"Oh, is that what they’re calling it these days?"

Silence. Then the faintest smirk tugged at his lips.

"You didn’t mind," he said quietly.

I stared out the window, hiding the grin threatening to betray me. "Shut up and drive, Peacock."

"Gladly. My woman."

"Adrien."

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"I will throw this absurd pink phone case at your infuriatingly calm face," I finished, holding up my phone, the cheap plastic case a hideous shade of bubblegum.

He didn’t even glance at the phone. His eyes, dark and intense, flickered from the road to my face for a fraction of a second before returning to the asphalt rushing under the tires. The smirk was still there, wider now, dangerously confident.

"You won’t," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the silence of the car.

"Oh, I won’t?" I challenged, brandishing the phone like a weapon. "Try me, Peacock."

"No," he corrected, his voice deepening slightly. "You won’t. Because then you wouldn’t have it to call me later. And you know you’re going to want to."

My breath hitched again, but this time it wasn’t from annoyance. It was a thrill, sharp and sudden. He knew exactly how to disarm me, how to turn my playful anger into something else entirely.

I lowered the phone slowly, the threat dissolving into the charged air between us. I couldn’t hide the heat rising in my cheeks this time.

"You are so unserious," I muttered, tucking the phone away.

"And you’re mine," he replied softly, his gaze meeting mine again before he focused back on the road.

He reached across the console, his fingers brushing against the back of my hand where it rested on my knee. His touch was warm, a stark contrast to the polished, controlled exterior he presented to the world.

"Next time," he said, his gaze flicking to mine, intense and unwavering, "don’t wait for me to step in. You handle the business. But don’t ever feel you have to swallow disrespect. Not for a client. Not for anyone. And if they push, remember you have backup. A very possessive backup."

I intertwined my fingers with his, a small, private gesture in the cocoon of the car after the public spectacle. The heat from his hand spread up my arm.

"Okay," I whispered, my voice a little shaky. "Okay."

He squeezed my hand once, fiercely, then released it to focus on the road again.

ADRIEN’S POV

I watched Isabella’s figure disappear inside her house before starting my car. The city around me was a blur, but my mind was razor sharp—locked onto the way that man had looked at Isabella. Not just a glance, but that calculating look, like he was measuring what she was worth... like he thought he could take what was mine.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, muscles coiling. I wanted to pull over, call my people, and dismantle every inch of that mall. I wanted to erase the whole project and the client who thought he could play games with my woman. But I didn’t. It took every ounce of restraint I had not to end the deal right there.

But I didn’t end it.

Because she deserved better than the fallout of my rage. She deserved the success, the headlines, the quiet satisfaction of building something brilliant and lasting. And I wasn’t about to let one man’s arrogance stain her work.

My phone rang. I sighed, expecting Cameron or some update I didn’t want to deal with right now.

Instead, I saw the name.

Mom.

I picked up. "Hey."

"Oh," she gasped dramatically. "My son remembered I exist."

A soft laugh escaped me before I could stop it. "I always remember you."

"Mm-hmm," she said, amusement coating every syllable. "Even when you don’t call for three days?"

"I’ve been busy."

"You’re always busy," she said gently, like it was both an observation and a reminder not to let it harden me too much. "But I won’t lecture you today. I’m too happy you answered."

I leaned back in the seat, her voice already taking the edge off the day. "I’m heading home now."

"Oh, good," she said, voice brightening. "Because there’s a little surprise waiting for you. Nothing dramatic," she added before I could interrupt. "Just... something I hope will make you smile."

A surprise from Mom? Usually, that meant a new piece of ridiculously expensive art she’d decided I urgently needed, or a box of obscure organic teas. "What kind of surprise?" I asked, slightly wary.

"Oh, I won’t spoil it. But I promise it’s something you’ll like."

I paused, curiosity flickering. "You didn’t have to do that."

"I’m your mother. Of course I did."

That made me smile.

"Alright," I said finally. "I’m on my way."

The call ended, and the silence in the car returned.

But it was softer now. Less sharp around the edges.

I took the turnoff from the highway, the road narrowing and curving through tall trees that led to the Walton family villa. It sat just beyond the city—secluded, expansive, and quiet in that unnerving way old money estates tend to be.

I pulled through the gates, the iron archway swinging open on cue. The gravel crunched under the tires as I drove up the circular drive. The villa stood tall, bathed in the fading gold of early evening light. The kind of beauty that looked too perfect to be real.

A valet was already waiting by the entrance. Of course.

The valet opened the door before the car had even come to a full stop, a silent, efficient ghost in a crisp black uniform.

I killed the engine, the sudden silence amplifying the soft crunch of gravel under the tires. I handed the keys over without a word, my gaze sweeping over the perfectly manicured lawn and the imposing facade of the villa.

I stepped through the front door.

The soft warmth of the foyer hit first—the scent of fresh jasmine and old wood, the faint classical music playing somewhere in the background, the clink of china being set down.

And then I heard it.

Laughter.

My mother’s voice. Light and unguarded.

I walked toward the sitting room, footsteps slow and quiet, tension tightening with each step like a noose.

And then I saw them.

My mother sat comfortably on the cream settee, her silk scarf loosely knotted at her throat, her smile wide with amusement.

And behind her—hands gently working over her shoulders like she’d done it a hundred times before—stood...Clara?

Clara Langford.

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