"Aec, we came here for fun," someone from behind called out, a woman...her voice cutting through the tense silence like a blade wrapped in silk. "Don't show your audacity and power here." Then she steps out in front of us ...
I turned sharply at that.
Aec... So, Mr. Attitude had a name. Figures it would sound like something expensive short, cold, and mysterious enough to belong on the front of a cologne bottle.
The woman who'd spoken was stunning, tall, all curves and confidence. Her black curls framed her bronze skin perfectly, and her green dress looked like something pulled straight out of a designer's runway. She wasn't just beautiful; she was polished. The kind of polished that money couldn't teach, the kind that came with being around power too long.
She held Aec's wrist like she'd done it a hundred times before. "Come on," she coaxed, her voice lower now. "You promised no scenes today."
Aec didn't even blink. His eyes were still fixed on me, and for a second, I swore I saw something flicker there, irritation, calculation, maybe even amusement. Whatever it was, it made my stomach twist in that annoying way that told me this man was the type of trouble that always wins.
The crowd had already formed a circle, everyone whispering, phones up, recording like it was a live show. Some guy behind me muttered, "Is that him?" and suddenly I wanted to turn around and punch someone.
"Aec," the woman hissed again, a little sharper this time. "You're making it worse."
Still no reply from him. Just that damn stare. The kind that crawled into your spine and dared you to look away first. I refused to. If he thought he could intimidate me with that blank, superior face, he was in for a surprise.
Then, finally, he shifted slow, deliberate, like a lion deciding whether to eat or walk away from its prey. The woman tugged him toward the cars parked just beyond the field, and the crowd parted like water.
And that's when I saw it.
A sleek black Rolls-Royce Cullinan, glossy enough to reflect the chaos around it, waited with its door open. Beside it, a Ferrari 812 Superfast, deep crimson and loud even in stillness, idled quietly, engine humming like it was ready for war. Two black-suited men stood by, sunglasses hiding their eyes even though the sun was already fading.
Oh, he was that kind of man.
The kind that didn't need to brag, the money did it for him. The kind who had people clearing paths just by standing there. The kind who made you feel small for breathing near his oxygen.
My jaw clenched.
He was already halfway to the Rolls when he suddenly stopped. The woman turned, confused, but he didn't move. Instead, he looked back at me.
My pulse skipped. Damn him...
He took one step back toward the crowd, his tall frame cutting through the noise like gravity itself had decided to follow him. "What's your name?" His voice was low, dark, and steady maybe too calm for someone who'd almost caused a brawl.
The air around us thickened. I could feel every gaze turning toward me.
"What?" I asked, folding my arms because hell if I'd show nerves now.
He just stared. "Your name."
It wasn't curiosity. It was a command, the kind that made people obey without realizing. But I wasn't people.
I shrugged. "Depends. You planning to apologize or hire an assassin?"
A few gasps rippled through the onlookers, but I didn't care. He blinked slowly, once, and then the corner of his mouth twitched like he wasn't sure whether to smirk or strangle me. "Be careful," he said finally, his tone dropping an octave lower. "The world's full of people who talk too much."
I tilted my head. "Good thing I don't care about most of the world."
That got me a pause, just a second of hesitation before he gave this faint, humorless huff, almost like a laugh but not quite. "You should," he said, "because it'll care about you soon enough."
My stomach did this weird, annoying twist again, but I forced a scoff. "Is that a threat or your way of saying I impressed you?"
He didn't answer. The woman returned, slipping her hand around his arm again like she was used to cleaning up his storms. "Aec, let's go."
He didn't argue. He just gave me one last long look, cold and unreadable... before turning and following her to the Rolls-Royce.
The moment the car door closed, the sound felt final. The engine purred, low and dangerous, as the convoy pulled away with the kind of slow, silent dominance that said: We don't rush for anyone.
The murmurs started immediately.
"Oh my God, that was Aec Duvall." "Girl's done for." "She slapped him?" "She's insane."
"The hell" I cussed under my breathe, when did I slap him? I ignored them all. My hands were still shaking slightly, but it wasn't fear it was anger.
I wanted to scream into a pillow
"Let's go home," I muttered to Maxie, turning away from the chaos.
"Home?" she blinked, following after me like a lost puppy. "Are you serious? We literally rented this entire space for the weekend!"
"I don't care," I said, brushing past a couple still whispering about the girl who stood up to Aec. "I've had enough testosterone and entitlement for one day."
Maxie caught my wrist, eyes wide and pleading. "Please, Sharon. Just one night. Forget that jerk, okay? We'll swim, eat, maybe drink a little. He's gone. He can't ruin the fun if you don't let him."
I sighed. She was right...sort of. I'd known Maxie since high school. Saying no to her was like saying no to gravity.
"Fine," I muttered. "But I'm eating the biggest piece of chicken first."
Her grin was instant. "Deal."
We walked back toward the rented house, a cozy modern cabin-style thing on the edge of the field. Music had started playing again, people laughing awkwardly to cover up the tension. A few gave me side glances, others just pretended nothing happened. I ignored them all.
Inside, I sank into the couch, kicked off my shoes, and let out a deep breath. "Remind me never to step on rich people's toes again."
Maxie chuckled weakly. "Literally."
But I could still feel it, that gaze. Those damn gray eyes. They'd burned into me like frostbite.
"Who even is he?" I asked, even though I wasn't sure I wanted to know.
Maxie bit her lip. "You really don't know?"
"Maxie, I wouldn't ask if I did."
She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "He's Aec Duvall. CEO of Duvall Group. The one who practically owns half the real estate in the city. His dad's a former senator or something. Rumor has it he's… dangerous."
I rolled my eyes. "Oh great. I managed to piss off a billionaire with anger management issues."
"Not just anger management issues," she whispered. "He..."
Her words cut off when the door creaked open.
Marcus walked in.
He looked annoyingly proud of himself, adjusting his belt like someone who'd just had the time of his life. The smirk on his face told me I was about five seconds away from slapping another man today.
Behind him, a blonde girl emerged, lipstick smeared, hair a wild mess. She was laughing softly, running her fingers through her curls like she didn't just step out of a private make-out session.
I didn't need to be a genius to know what happened.
"Unbelievable," I muttered.
Marcus spotted us, straightened his shirt, and tried to act casual. "Yo, Sharon. Maxie. Why does it feel like someone died in here?"
The blonde brushed past me, smirking, pretending to fix her hair. I could practically smell the perfume of betrayal.
Something in me snapped.
I stood up slowly, forcing a smile so tight it could crack glass. "Maybe," I said sweetly, "if you'd stop fucking skirts for once and get a skill, you'd actually notice."
The room went dead silent.
Marcus froze mid-step. Maxie's mouth dropped open.
And me? I just stood there, arms folded, staring him down, adrenaline still buzzing through my veins. Because today apparently was the day I forgot how to keep quiet.