Confidence POV
I didn't expect my first real day at work to feel like a battlefield.
Not because of the mothers—those ones loved me immediately. Or maybe they loved my "perfect little family story," which wasn't exactly perfect or mine. Cynthia practically dragged me into the mothers' circle, asking about my "labor experience," and whether my "husband" cried when Louis was born.
I could feel Charles's eyes drilling holes into the back of my skull the whole time.
He didn't blink. He didn't breathe. He just watched.
He wanted to catch me slipping. He wanted to find one lie. Just one.
Well… two can play that game.
So I flashed Cynthia a soft smile and told them every detail my mother had always told me about her labor with me—the pain, the complications, the fear, and the love my father had for a child he never got to know. And as the mothers gasped and praised me, Charles leaned against the doorway, arms folded, jaw ticking.
He didn't like that I had survived their interrogation so easily.
Good.
Let him choke on it.
After the meeting, he cornered me the moment I tried to escape.
"Confidence," he said, hands in his pockets, voice dangerously calm. "Tell me… when exactly did you give birth again? Since today your memory seems incredibly fresh."
I turned to him with the sweetest, fakest smile I could muster.
"Why? Do you want the full medical report too? Should I draw diagrams?"
He stepped closer. Challenge blazing in his eyes.
"If that would help confirm the truth, then yes," he said. "You're extremely good at making things up."
"And you're extremely good at being annoying," I snapped. "Is that in your job description?"
His lips twitched, almost amused. "Is lying in yours?"
Oh, he wanted a fight.
"Listen," I said through my teeth, "I handled everything just fine in there. But you—" I poked him in the chest— "you obviously have a problem with me succeeding."
He raised a brow. "I'm only trying to make sure this… 'family' storyline doesn't fall apart in two minutes."
"It won't fall apart," I shot back. "You're the only one shaking right now."
His eyes narrowed. "Me? Shaking?"
"Yes. You were staring like a jealous ex-husband."
He took a step so close his breath brushed my cheek. "I wasn't jealous. I was watching you lie so smoothly I almost believed you."
"That's the point," I whispered. "Everyone else believed me."
He leaned in even closer. "Including your fake husband?"
I froze.
There it was. The challenge.
"And what exactly is that supposed to mean?" I asked.
"Your friend," he said, voice dropping lower. "The one pretending to be your husband. You two seem… close."
Oh. So he was jealous.
I smiled slowly. "Why? Does that bother you?"
His jaw clenched. "It bothers me when things don't add up."
"Liar," I murmured.
His eyes flared—cold, hot, frustrated, wanting.
"Confidence," he warned.
"Yes, Charles?"
"You're playing a dangerous game."
"And you're losing."
Silence.
Tense. Heavy. Charged.
Then he brushed past me, but not before murmuring in my ear:
"Let's see how long you keep the act together."
I turned to him, chin lifted high. "Watch me."
He stopped, looked back, eyes burning.
"Oh, I'm watching you," he said. "A little too closely."
My heart skipped. Damn him.
Damn me.
I hated how he affected me… and how I affected him even more.
This war had officially started—and neither of us planned to lose.
Charles assigned everyone to their tasks, but of course—of course—he chose to work with me. Out of all the mothers, all the women, all the staff… he picked me.
And now here he was, sitting in the corner like some Greek god on vacation, not doing a single thing. Nope. He was eating cherries. Slowly. Seductively. Annoyingly.
Every pop of the cherry between his lips was a reminder of how those same lips had been on mine… on my neck… on my nipples… and lower.
My thighs pressed together on instinct. Great. Fantastic. I'm getting wet over a man who is literally doing nothing but being irritatingly hot.
He tossed another cherry stem aside and said, "Your measurements are crooked."
I dropped my pen. "My measurements are perfectly fine. Maybe your eyes are crooked."
He smirked—that smirk. "Confidence, if I say it's crooked, then it's crooked."
"Oh really? Should I kneel down so the air becomes your throne too?"
He shrugged. "Wouldn't be the worst thing you've done on your knees."
My mouth fell open. "Excuse you?!"
He leaned back, stretching those long arms, looking way too comfortable.
"I can't believe this is going to last for five days," I muttered.
"Five days," he repeated. "Of tasting every liquid for 20 seconds, 20 minutes, and one hundred and twenty times in total."
He said it like he was reading a bedtime story. "Make sure to promptly take records. Check for changes in temperature, humidity and circumference."
I stared at him. "Why do we need to do it here? In the middle of a lonely field? Are you building a science empire or summoning demons?"
"No lab available," he replied. "We do it here. Or we don't do it at all. It's a fire hazard."
"Okay but—" I pointed at the trees around us. "What about the night shift? I won't be here alone, right?"
He gave me this look. "Why? You can't handle it alone? You said you'd do anything to prove me wrong."
"That was… motivational speaking!"
"Hm." He raised a brow. "Could've been a lie too."
I glared. "If you knew it was a lie, why are you letting me work here?"
He stood up, brushing off his trousers. "If you can't do it, resign."
"Oh wow, look at that—dictatorship in a suit," I snapped.
He turned to leave.
Something in me snapped too.
"You know what? I don't know why you're acting like this!" I shouted. "All because we almost—"
He stopped.
Dead.
Still.
Back stiff.
Shoulders tight.
I swallowed.
"—almost… you know…"
He slowly turned around, eyes locked on mine, voice dangerously low.
"Say it."
"No."
"Say it, Confidence."
I lifted my chin. "All because we almost fucked."
Silence.
His jaw flexed. His eyes darkened. His breath came out slow and deep—like he was holding back a whole storm.
Then he stepped closer.
"One," he said softly, "we didn't almost fuck. We were two seconds from you screaming my name."
I blinked.
"Two," he continued, stepping closer, "don't flatter yourself—I'm acting like this because you're distracting."
"Me?! I'm distracting?!" I slapped my chest. "You're the one eating cherries like it's a porn audition."
He laughed—he actually laughed—and shook his head.
"Oh, Confidence," he said, "you have no idea what you do to me."
My heart betrayed me. It sped up. My stomach flipped.
"Well maybe stop acting like a tyrant and start acting like a boss!" I snapped, even though my face was burning.
He stepped even closer. "Maybe stop acting like you don't love the attention."
I shoved him in the chest. "In your dreams!"
He smirked. "I have them, you know."
"Nightmares, I hope."
"No. Very detailed dreams."
He leaned in. "You always beg in them."
My knees trembled.
"Shut up," I whispered.
"Make me."
I turned away before he saw me melt. "Ugh! This is going to be the longest five days of my life."
"Correction," he said, biting into another cherry, "this is going to be the best five days of my life."
I rolled my eyes so hard I saw another universe.
But my chest?
My chest felt like it was glowing.
And that was the problem.