Page 17 of Forced Arrangement

“You should get used to it.”

She sighs and turns away from me, which is good because I was beginning to think ridiculous thoughts like that I should pin her against the fridge and find out if her body is as soft as it looks.

She moves through the flat with practiced efficiency, gathering the last of her things, but there is a tension in her movements—a reluctance to fully let go.

She comes back into the kitchen wearing a dress. It’s form-fitting and beautiful, and it makes me want to smile.

“Can’t arrive in New York looking like something the cat dragged in, now can I?”

“No. You look beautiful.”

That seems to startle her into a rare moment of silence, her mouth hanging open and her breathing quick. And we stand there for what must be only seconds, but it feels far longer, just staring at each other.

She is used to running, to being ready to disappear, but this time, it isn’t just another escape. This is different, and I can see it in the way she pauses to glance at her mother’s things, a fleeting moment of hesitation before she turns to face me.

“Is this everything?” I ask quietly, breaking whatever the hell is gathering between us.

She nods, but her eyes linger on the room for just a second longer, as if saying goodbye to the life she has built here—the life she is about to leave behind.

“Ready?” I ask, my voice low. It sounds almost intimate in the quiet of the entranceway, and my heart leaps a little. She must feel the tension between us too, because her eyes lock on mine for a moment, something warm glowing in their depths. Then she turns away, and the spell is broken.

She nods, her fingers tightening around the handle of her suitcase. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

I reach for her suitcase, our fingers brushing as I take it from her. The contact is brief, but it is enough to send a spark of awareness shooting through me, straight to my core. I can feel the warmth of her skin even after I let go, the sensation lingering like a phantom touch.

“Allow me.”

She doesn’t argue, but I can see the tension in her frame, the way she is trying to hold herself together. I admire that about her—the strength, the resolve—but I also want to see what is beneath it. I want to know what it would take to make her drop that guard, to see her for who she really is.

I lead the way back to the car, my hand resting lightly on the small of her back and my fingers twitching like I’m a fucking schoolboy touching a girl for the first time.

It’s a casual touch, nothing more than a gesture of guidance, but the instant my palm makes contact with her body, I feel a subtle shiver run through her body. She doesn’t pull away, but I can sense the way she tenses, the way her breath hitches slightly, as if she’s trying to maintain control.

Good. I want her to feel this. I want her to be as aware of me, as I am of her.

As we reach the car, I open the door and gesture for her to get in. She hesitates for just a moment, her eyes meeting mine, and I can see the conflict there.

“Remember, it’s just a game, Sophia,”

Her lips press into a thin line, but she doesn’t argue. Instead, she slides into the backseat, her movements graceful and controlled. I follow her in, closing the door behind me as the car pulls away from the curb.

The silence between us is thick, charged with an energy that neither of us can ignore. I can feel her beside me, the heat of her body just inches away, the soft scent of her perfume lingering in the air.

Every part of me is hyper-aware of her—of the way she shifts slightly in her seat, the way her fingers curl into the fabric of her coat, the way her chest rises and falls with each measured breath.

I want to touch her again. I want to feel that spark, that connection. I want to see if it is as electric as it was the first time. But I hold back, letting the tension build, letting her feel the weight of it.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks suddenly, her voice breaking the silence. There is a vulnerability in her tone, a crack in the armor she wears so carefully.

“Doing what?” I reply, my voice calm, even as the intensity between us threatens to boil over.

“This.” She gestures between us, her brow furrowing slightly. “This whole…act. Pretending to be engaged, pretending to care about what happens to me. What’s in it for you?”

I consider her question, knowing that the answer is more complicated than she realizes. There are so many layers to this, to us. Layers that I’m not ready to peel back just yet.

“You're an asset of sorts. Having you dead would be really bad for business,”

She snorts loudly. “Good to know that’s all I am to you.”

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