Page 1 of A Forbidden Arrangement
Chapter 1
Dahlia
My phone buzzeson the desk. I already know what it’ll say, but I pick it up anyway.
Bradley
Sorry, babe. I’ve got to stay late and wrap up this project. You know how it is. Won’t be long, I promise. Head back without me. I’ll grab dinner.
Of course, see you soon. Don’t work too hard.
I let out a long breath, cheeks puffing before I can stop myself. Same message as last night and the night before. Ever since he got promoted to the fourth floor, he feels…distant.
The blue glow of my monitor blinks out as I shut it down. My fingers bunch in my jacket, holding tight, like maybe I’ll squeeze the irritation out of me. It’s stupid. He’s killing himself over this deal, and here I am sulking because he won’t clock out on time.
I used to brag that he always put me first. And now, the second he puts work ahead, I’m pouting like some spoiled kid.
Real fiancée of the year.
I shove my arms through my coat sleeves and grab my bag. He mentioned dinner. I bet he’s hungry. The least I can do is make sure he eats.
The cool fall air lifts the strands that slipped free from the bun I wear like armor. Bradley swears by fake-it-’til-you-make-it, and part of that means looking like I belong at his side. So even though I’d rather be in leggings and a ponytail, I’m buttoned into a pencil skirt, silk blouse, and blazer. The whole outfit costs almost a month of my salary, but the way his eyes lit up when I first wore it made the pinch feel worth it.
There’s a noodle shop just down the block. We used to spend whole evenings here when we first started. The scent of spice pulls me right back to when we used to camp at one of the corner tables for hours, bowls clinking between us.
“Well, now. Look who’s just turned up,” Mr. Tanaka calls out as I approach the counter. Despite being in his late sixties, his beaming smile makes him appear young.
“Sorry it’s been so long.” I give him a sheepish smile. “Work’s been…a lot lately.”
I guess I hadn’t realized how long it’s been since Bradley and I were here.
His brows pinch, faint but there, like he wants to ask more but lets it slide. “Good to see you anyway. Taking the usual? That guy you used to come with running late?”
“Yes, the usual. To go.” I hesitate, then add, “He’s stuck at the office. I thought I’d surprise him.”
Mr. Tanaka hums under his breath, and a sigh escapes. “Just remember to come by even without that guy.”
My smile freezes. The way he says “that guy” reminds me of the last time we came here. Bradley barely got a hello, no easy charm, no warmth. At the time, I brushed it off, but now…
I open my mouth to ask, but my order’s already waiting on the counter. Fast as always.
“It was good to see you, Dahlia.” His eyes soften, almost sad. “Don’t be a stranger.”
I clutch the bag tighter than I need to, nodding before slipping back out into the cold.
Food in hand, I ride the elevator, watching each number blink as the car climbs higher. The closer it gets, the more something gnaws in my stomach. I push it down, hug the warm paper bag closer.
The hallway is dark when I step out, every office quiet except for the one at the end.His. A stripe of light cuts across the carpet from the crack under the door.
My floor is all cubicles, rows of heads bent over glowing screens, but here, it’s nothing but private offices along the windows. Bradley was so proud when he made it up here. We threw a party that night, cheap beer and thrift store decorations. He kissed me under the string lights I taped to the ceiling, said everything was changing, that this was the start of the life we’d been waiting for.
The memory settles me, and I move down the hall with long strides. There’s a giddy anticipation bubbling beneath my ribs at the thought of his smile when he sees me.
Before I reach the door, a low, rhythmic sound leaks through the wood and freezes me mid-step. Heat burns the back of my neck, prickling down my arms. My grip tightens around the bag, oil bleeding through the paper, the smell of sesame and garlic suddenly sour.
No.I must be imagining it.
I press my hand to the knob. My fingers slip with sweat as I turn it, the latch giving a sharp click. The noise doesn’t stop. It sharpens, grows more distinct with every inch the door moves.
