Fake Date, Real Fate-Chapter 77: Miss Miller And Mr. Walton: Round Two

Adrien Walton hates plants.

I found that out on my second day when he told a delivery guy to "take that green thing out of his office before it starts photosynthesizing." His exact words.

So, naturally, I decided to gift him one.

It wasn’t real, of course. I’m not that irresponsible — what if I accidentally killed it and he blamed me for botanical manslaughter?

No, this was war, not a gardening class. I went with a plastic aloe vera I found in the clearance bin of a decor shop. Slightly shiny, slightly crooked, and 100% annoying.

Mr. Walton’s office was a temple of stark, geometric perfection. Clean lines, muted colours, expensive art that probably cost more than my car. Everything was curated, controlled, utterly devoid of anything remotely... tacky.

Perfect.

And the temperature? Sub-zero. Sam from marketing called him the CEO of Antarctica. His office was always kept at a glacial chill that seemed designed to freeze out any warmth or humanity.

Right. Plan B: Subtlety and environmental manipulation.

I waited until just after lunch, when Adrien had a standing meeting with the executive team in the boardroom. This was my window.

I grabbed my fake aloe Vera plant, gave it a quick, pathetic dusting with a tissue, and made my way down the hall.

My heart was thumping again, a different kind of beat this time – less frantic panic, more mischievous anticipation. I peeked into his office. Empty. The air hit me like a blast from a freezer unit. Yep, still Antarctica.

I slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind me. The silence was deafening, broken only by the hum of the air conditioning. I walked over to his desk, the massive expanse of polished dark wood

His desk was obsessively ordered—pens aligned, papers stacked with surgical precision, not a speck of dust in sight.

Perfect.

I set the aloe vera pot dead center on his desk, right in front of his monitor — somewhere he couldn’t ignore it. It looked so aggressively cheerful there. So green. So... alive. Like hope itself sprouted a leaf just to piss him off.

I took a step back, admiring my handiwork. It was glorious. The sheer audacity of it made me want to giggle, but I stifled it.

Next, the temperature.

I located the digital thermostat control panel, sleek and discreetly mounted near the door.

I normally wouldn’t touch this, but this was war, remember? I tapped it, raising the temperature a few degrees — 86 degrees Fahrenheit, to be exact. Enough to make a noticeable difference to someone who liked his office kept at polar bear–habitable levels, but not enough to trigger a full-blown facilities alert.

It would feel... slightly less crisp.

Slightly stuffy, maybe. Uncomfortably for him? Yes. Deliciously so.

I stepped back, a surge of triumph mixing with the lingering fear of getting caught. The plastic aloe vera sat there, a beacon of defiant, fake greenery against the backdrop of his meticulously controlled world. It looked absurdly out of place, almost vibrating with a silent "Ha!".

The air in the room was already starting to shift. It wasn’t hot yet, not truly, but the sharp, biting edge was gone.

It felt merely cool now, like a crisp autumn day rather than an Arctic expedition. For me, it was an improvement. For Adrien? I hoped it would feel like wading through lukewarm treacle, slowly, subtly undoing his pristine chill. A tropical assault on his personal ice age.

The silence in the office felt different, too – less about cold emptiness, more about the quiet hum of anticipation.

I imagined Adrien returning, his sharp eyes landing on the unwelcome visitor on his desk, his sensitive skin registering the unacceptable warmth. Would he yell? Freeze? Or would he just... glare? The thought made a mischievous butterfly flutter in my stomach.

Okay, mission complete for now. Time to make my escape before the meeting ended.

I tiptoed back towards the door, casting one last look at the plant – my little green soldier of chaos – standing guard on his battlefield of a desk.

I cracked the door open, glanced down the deserted hall and slipped out like a shadow.

Closing the door behind me was oddly satisfying. It felt like sealing in a tiny, potent dose of disruption.

I walked quickly and calmly back to my own desk, trying to erase the smirk that threatened to bloom on my face.

Now, all that was left was to wait. Wait for the CEO of Antarctica to return to his melting kingdom and discover the ghost of a smile I’d left behind. And his new plant friend.

The next hour felt like an eternity. Every time I heard footsteps approaching Adrien’s office, my heart would leap into my throat.

I tried to focus on my work, but my eyes kept darting towards the door at the end of the hall.

What would he do? Would he throw the plant out the window? Would he demand to know who dared to tamper with his thermostat? Would he simply... not notice? No, he had to notice. The plant was practically screaming for attention, and the temperature change would be unmistakable.

Finally, I heard the distinct sound of his expensive dress shoes clicking down the hall, followed by the low murmur of voices as he said goodbye to someone. My breath hitched. This was it. The moment of truth.

He entered his office. There was a brief pause. Then, from within the controlled silence, I heard it. A sharp, intake of breath, followed by a sound that was somewhere between a frustrated sigh and a low growl.

I heard the door swing open.

At 1:15, I heard:

"Miss Miller."

That voice. Calm. Controlled. Murderous.

I stood, schoolgirl innocent. "Yes, Mr. Walton?"

He said nothing. Just stared at me like I’d set his desk on fire.

I followed him into the office and was immediately hit by a wave of warm air. It was humid. Sticky.

His office had gone from corporate Siberia to budget yoga studio.

And there it was — my aloe vera, proudly perched on his desk like a tiny, leafy middle finger.

"What," he said slowly, "is that?"

"Oh, that?" I blinked innocently. "A plant.

Office greenery. Studies show it boosts productivity and reduces stress."

He stared at me. I widened my eyes like a helpful little intern from hell.

"It’s fake," he said flatly.

"Exactly. Zero maintenance. Just like me," I said sweetly.

His jaw ticked. "Remove it."

"Of course," I said with a chipper nod, making no move to actually do so. "Right after your 3 PM."

He looked like he was mentally filing HR paperwork in his head.

Then, quietly: "Why is it hot in here?"

I swallowed hard, trying to look as bland and clueless as possible. "Hot? I don’t feel hot!"

He looked at me, his eyes glinting with something that might have been murderous amusement. "I’m not asking if you feel hot, Miss Miller. I’m asking why the temperature in my office has been unilaterally raised by fifteen degrees in direct contravention of companywide specifications."

I tilted my head, feigning earnest concern. "Oh, you noticed? I thought it felt much better. More... vibrant." I paused, then adopted a studious expression. "You know, they say peak cognitive function occurs at temperatures between 71-74 degrees Fahrenheit. And considering the plant is a tropical species—"

"It’s plastic."

"—it would theoretically thrive best in a slightly warmer environment," I continued, undeterred. "Happy theoretical plant, happy office, Mr. Walton."

His eyes narrowed slightly – the only outward sign that my carefully constructed facade was grating on him.

"You changed the thermostat," he stated, the flat delivery stripping away any pretense of it being a question.

"Optimizing your workspace," I corrected gently, giving him a helpful smile. "A crucial part of modern office management."

He walked past me, heading straight for the little digital panel near the door. His fingers moved swiftly, tapping the temperature back down.

The subtle, comfortable warmth I’d introduced began to recede almost immediately, the familiar glacial chill seeping back into the air like a frosty counter-offensive.

"Do not," he said without turning, his voice like ice cracking under pressure, "touch that again."

I smiled sweetly at his back. "Noted, Mr. Walton. But just so you know, extreme cold can stress even the hardiest of... desk accessories. You wouldn’t want your new friend to feel lonely, would you?"

He didn’t respond directly, but I heard another low growl under his breath, the kind a predator makes when something small and annoying won’t hold still.

He turned back to face me, his gaze sweeping from the ridiculous green lump on his desk to my face. It was a silent challenge, a promise of consequences.

"If this plant is still here after 3 PM," he said, his voice having regained some dangerous calm, "you will have to explain why you are disrupting the CEO’s workflow and personal comfort."

"Consider it a temporary tenant, then," I said, finally taking a step towards the door. "Just enjoying the... optimized environment while it lasts."

I gave the plant a little wave as I went, a salute to my tiny, resilient soldier of chaos.

Adrien Walton watched me go, his expression unreadable, but the tension radiating off him was palpable.

The air conditioning hummed back to life, reclaiming its territory, but I knew I’d left my mark.

Score: Isabella – 2. Adrien – still emotionally constipated.

But I saw it — the way his eye twitched.

The barely restrained rage masked under that thousand-yard glare.

The source of this c𝐨ntent is freewe(b)nov𝒆l