In Love With My Bully-Chapter 127: I Didn’t Cheat On You

Drake stared at her.

He hated how maddeningly beautiful she looked when she was being impossible.

The sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows caught the subtle sheen in her skin, the defiant arch of her brow, the tight line of her glossy lips that refused to tremble.

Drake sighed and dropped his gaze to the floor for a second before returning it to her. "I didn’t cheat on you, Queen."

"But you kissed her," she said softly. And that softness hurt more than the yelling would have. "You chose to kiss her."

"Are you listening to yourself?" Drake’s voice cracked like a whip across the room. His frustration wasn’t just simmering anymore—it was boiling over.

"Drake," she said, "I really do not think it is professional to have an argument with your boss at work."

That did it.

Drake’s jaw clenched, his knuckles whitening at his sides. "Actually," he ground out, "you are not my boss. At least, not yet. Your father still is."

His voice rose slightly with every word. "And this..."—he gestured to the contract on the desk between them—"this is what I was trying to avoid when I said I didn’t want to move into your damn condo."

Queen raised one perfectly arched brow. "So it’s the condo’s fault now?"

"This emasculation," he snapped. "This feeling like I’m some arm-candy husband who gets handed keys to a castle while you make all the decisions behind my back!"

With a swift, angry motion, he picked up the file and tossed it at her. The papers fluttered.

"I’ll find another house to buy in whatever part of town I can afford," he finished, voice tight. "And it is up to you to move in there with me."

Queen didn’t respond. She didn’t chase him. She didn’t say his name.

She just sat there, eyes still on the fluttering edges of the contract, the only sound in the room now the fading echo of his footsteps as he stormed out the door and slammed it behind him.

Outside her window, the skyline of the city glittered with cold beauty—highrises piercing the evening haze, car horns muffled by glass.

Queen let her body sink back into her chair. The file sat like a taunt in front of her.

*******

Chayara sat cross-legged on her couch, arms wrapped around her knees.

The clock on her wall was taunting her. It was 6:53 PM.

Seven o’clock was looming. She had tried—oh, she had tried. She’d sent Guy three different variations of "Hey, I can’t make it tonight," and a long-winded paragraph about how she wasn’t in the mental space for wine and small talk with strangers. His only reply?

"Be there at 7. Dress casual."

That was it. Just like that. No emoji. No option to flake. Just a command that made her want to simultaneously roll her eyes and scream into a pillow.

It had rained earlier, and the air still carried that damp, moody fragrance that made everything feel heavier than usual.

She stared at her phone.

Then at the closet.

Then at the clock again.

6:56 PM.

Her cropped jeans ended just below her calves, showing off the soft sheen of lotion she’d only bothered to apply because she’d been bored and spiraling. The crop top she wore was fitted and white, clinging to her ribs. She wanted solitude. Darkness. Maybe a good cry, or an entire chocolate cake to herself.

The ticking clock on the wall seemed louder than usual. She swore it had been taunting her all evening, each second dragging on. She glared at the minute hand as it clicked precisely into place at the top of the hour—7:00 PM—and just as if the universe had been in on Guy’s evil plans, there was a knock at her door.

Chay sighed, long and dramatic. She dragged herself up, every step towards the door heavier than the last.

"Guy, I told you..." she began as she swung it open.

"I’m not listening," he said with a breezy confidence that only he could wear.

Before she could protest, he slipped past her. He scanned the room, clocked a pair of her white sneakers beside the bedroom door, scooped them up, and turned back around with an air of triumphant mischief.

"What are you doing?" she asked, brows furrowed, arms akimbo, the picture of exasperated femininity.

"I grew up with six sisters, Chay," he said, already halfway across her living room. "Every one of them with different personalities. The dramatic, the rebel, the bookworm, the one who thinks she’s Beyoncé..."

"You’re stalling."

"I’m proving a point." He walked with the certainty of a man who had won this argument before it even began. "I know exactly how to deal with each one of them."

Then—before she could react—he was in front of her. Too close. Radiating that infuriating warmth that made her limbs betray her.

"Guy—wait—no—"

But he didn’t wait.

He swept her up and threw her over his shoulder in one smooth, cocky motion. Her head went down, legs went up, and the world turned sideways.

"GUY!" she squealed, squirming. "What are you doing?!"

From her new vantage point, she had a disturbingly clear view of his very sculpted, very toned ass flexing as he moved. Her cheeks flushed instantly.

She squeezed her eyes shut. ’Oh my God, I did not need to see that. My eyeballs are burning.’ She thought.

"Stop wiggling or I am going to spank your ass," he warned in a low growl, part playful, part...not.

Chay froze.

Every muscle in her body went still, her breath catching in her throat. Her bum clenched—tight, involuntarily—and she genuinely couldn’t tell if it was from panic or the wholly inappropriate thrill that zipped down her spine at the threat.

She wasn’t proud of the flutter in her stomach. Nor was she ready to admit that part of her—the unhinged, repressed, emotionally-constipated part—kind of wanted to test if he was bluffing.

"I swear to God," she muttered into his back, "if you so much as fart, I will bite you."

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