Fake Date, Real Fate-Chapter 123: Defending Our Own

The voice sliced through the tension like a whip.

A tall lady with sharp cheekbones and an equally icy smile came to the first lady— Clara, I’d learn — side.

She took one sharp look at me and Aria, narrowed her eyes, and tilted her head ever so slightly.

"Clara, who are they?"

Clara’s perfectly arched brow lifted as she turned to face her friend, her smile tightening into something sharp and frosty.

"Oh, just some... unfortunate interruptions," she said, voice dripping with disdain.

Her friend, a statuesque woman with a cold glint in her eye, stepped forward, folding her arms.

"Well, if they’re going to be a problem, maybe we should teach them some manners."

Aria squared her shoulders, stepping subtly between me and the woman, eyes burning.

"Manners? You mean barging into a conversation like a bulldozer in heels? That kind of grace? Sorry, but that attitude doesn’t impress anyone."

The laday—Victoria, I’d learn—recoiled slightly, like Aria had slapped her with a velvet glove soaked in vinegar. Clara’s smile vanished, her eyes flashing with undisguised rage.

"How dare you," Victoria hissed, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous register that nevertheless carried clearly through the boutique. "Do you have any idea who we are?"

"Well, I know who you’re not," Aria shot back, not missing a beat.

Victoria’s eyes narrowed. "And what are you? Some little trust fund brat playing rebellion with your friend?"

Aria stepped forward, voice steady and chilling. "I’m the nightmare that reminds you why money isn’t everything. And I’m not the one who’s going to back down."

Clara’s eyes flickered uneasily, but she masked it with a sneer.

"You think you’re scary?"

Aria smiled. "Try me."

Suddenly, Clara’s friend lunged, fingers digging into Aria’s hair and yanking hard.

I barely registered the screech of fabric and clatter of heels before Aria’s body jerked forward.

Clara’s friend had grabbed her so hard. Fingers curled in Aria’s long hair like she was trying to drag her off a battlefield.

Aria gasped, eyes flashing with something wild—then she snapped.

"Oh, you just made the worst decision of your entire Botox-filled life," Aria snarled.

And then all hell broke loose.

Aria whipped around, nails catching Victoria’s wrist and twisting it free with a force I didn’t know she had. They stumbled into a rack of dresses—silk and tulle flailing like horrified witnesses—before Aria shoved Victoria back.

"You wanna go? Let’s go!" Aria’s voice cracked through the air like a thunderclap. "I dare you to touch me again!"

Victoria stumbled, one stiletto sliding awkwardly on the glossy floor, but she caught herself—and lunged again.

Wrong move.

This time Aria didn’t just twist—she yanked, dragging Victoria forward by the very same hand she’d reached with, slamming her against the edge of a mirrored column with enough force to knock her stupid designer shades loose.

A collective gasp rose from the boutique staff, shoppers backing away like the walls were suddenly lined with explosives.

"Enough!" Clara shouted, stepping forward like she was royalty breaking up a tavern brawl. Her voice was icy, furious—but not nearly fast enough.

Aria’s chest heaved, her eyes blazing with an almost feral gleam. "You wanted chaos, sweetheart? Congratulations. You’re in my world now."

"You’re insane," Clara hissed, reaching for her friend.

"No, darling," Aria said, voice sugar and threat. "I’m provoked. There’s a difference."

I stepped in then, finally closing the space between them, placing a hand on Aria’s arm. "Aria," I said firmly, "let’s go."

She didn’t look away from Victoria, but her hand finally relaxed.

"Touch me again," she told her, low and lethal, "and I won’t aim for your hand next time."

ADRIEN’S POV

My phone buzzed once—then again.

I was halfway through a call with a board member, barely listening to his thoughts on something’s I can’t really remember, when I saw the name flash across the screen: Gray.

Not someone who called unless it mattered.

"Hold on," I told the board member, already switching lines.

"Talk." I said, already leaning back in my chair.

"She was at the boutique on Fifth," he said without preamble. "Shopping with the friend—the loud redhead one. I kept my distance like you instructed. Just tailing. But then two women cornered them near the dressing rooms. It got... loud."

My jaw flexed. "Loud?"

"Yeah. Real loud. Shouting, insults. The usual high-society nastiness you hear about, but more... direct. And then," Gray paused, the sound of muffled traffic suggesting he was still outside, "one of them grabbed the friend. By the hair."

A cold knot formed in my stomach. "Grabbed her?" My voice was flat, dangerously so.

"Yeah. Started it physically. The friend reacted. Fast. Like I said, almost ripped her hand off, basically. Went airborne into a dress rack. Things got broken."

I rubbed a hand down my face, irritation flickering behind my eyes. "You step in?"

"No. They didn’t escalate. But people were watching. Cameras were rolling. Some phones were up. And someone called the rude one by name—"

"I don’t care who they are," I snapped. "I care what happened."

"Right," Gray said quietly.

"Was Isabella hurt?" I asked, the anger a solid weight behind the single question.

"Didn’t look like it," Gray said. "The friend was between her and the aggressors most of the time."

Silence pulsed through the line.

Gray waited.

I closed the folder in front of me.

"And the store?"

"Still standing. Barely. Boutique staff tried to smooth things over."

A quiet beat.

Then I said, "Name?"

"Lenora’s. Fifth and Madison."

"Want me to intervene now?" he asked.

"No," I said. "They’ll feel it soon enough."

I ended the call

Then made one of my own.

I dialed the boutique’s owner personally—an old Walton Empire investor, now running a collection of high-end boutiques with the kind of discretion our partners required.

He picked up in under two rings. "Mr. Walton."

"There was a situation in your store this morning involving four women. The one on black wavy hair and her friend—the redhead one r are my people."

Silence.

"I’ll pull the footage immediately," he said. "And speak with staff."

"I want the purchases of those who disturbed them voided. Membership revoked. Flag them. No store under your brand is to entertain either of them again. And I want the apology delivered directly to my people. Make it personal."

"Yes, sir."

"And one more thing."

"Of course."

"If they ever step into your boutique again, have security escort them out. Quietly. Firmly. And make sure they know exactly why."

"Understood, Mr. Walton."

I ended the call.

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