Sweet Hatred
Chapter 89: The sweet devil.

Chapter 89: The sweet devil.

Kael tilted his head. "So?"

"He’s turning eight."

"Exactly. Prime age for emotional bonding with advanced robotics."

I blinked. "You want to emotionally bond a child to a weaponized Furby?"

He ignored me completely and turned to the manager like we were in a private consultation. "Do you have a catalogue for your top-tier items? Actually, never mind. I’ll just buy the store."

I physically grabbed him. "You’re not buying the store."

Kael leaned in, voice low, like he was revealing state secrets. "Do you want people to think I’m poor, Aria?"

I stared at him. Just stared. Because what the actual hell?

"No one thinks you’re poor," I hissed. "They think you’re crazy. Which you are."

He shrugged. "Same difference."

I was already exhausted and we hadn’t even made it to the birthday cards.

In a kids’ clothing boutique, he held up a tiny Dior blazer like he’d found buried treasure.

"He can wear this for the party."

"He wipes his nose on his shirt, Kael."

Kael flipped the price tag like it was a game. "Good. Better the Dior than the upholstery."

I prayed silently for strength. "We’re buying him Spider-Man socks and a Hot Wheels set, not a corporate starter pack."

"But the Dior says ’future CEO.’"

"The socks say ’I know what eight-year-olds like,’" I muttered, yanking the blazer from his hands before he ordered three in different colors.

At the card store, Kael picked one up, read the message, and recoiled like it bit him. "These are awful. They rhyme."

"Because they’re for children, Kael."

"I’ll have something custom made. Something elegant. Maybe in gold leaf. With a quote from Nietzsche."

"...He’s turning eight."

"Children like philosophy."

"No, Kael. They like cake, cartoon network and not dying in Minecraft."

His brows hung like I was speaking a foreign language.

"I’m five minutes from stabbing you with a bubble wand Mr. Roman. Do not test me."

Finally, finally, we made it to the register. I pulled out my wallet before he could do something insane again.

And the look he gave me?

You’d think I’d just set his family mansion on fire.

"Aria."

"I’m paying."

He blinked slowly. "Put that away."

"No."

"You’re embarrassing me."

"Good."

Then he turned to the cashier and, without looking, slid his black card across the counter like it was a damn mic drop. Then—then—he looked at me like I’d just slapped him in front of his ancestors.

"What was the plan, Aria? To split the bill?"

"I don’t know, maybe not force capitalism down a child’s throat?"

He ignored me. Again. Of course. We finally left and I told him I was heading home. He said nothing.

But I knew something was off the moment the car took the wrong turn. I frowned, arms crossed, staring at the annoyingly familiar road. "Um...Mr Kael Roman why the fuck are we going that way?"

He didn’t look at me. Of course he didn’t. He just kept one hand on the wheel, the other casually resting by the gear, like he wasn’t hijacking my entire evening.

I leaned in a little. "I said Kael. This isn’t my place."

He finally glanced at me with that smug glint in his eye—the kind that made me want to slap him and kiss him and then slap him again. "You’re right. It’s mine."

I groaned. "Why are we going back to your place? I was supposed to go home."

"You can go tomorrow."

"That’s not an answer."

"Tomorrow’s Kaleb’s birthday," he said smoothly as he pulled into his private parking like we were just out for a romantic dinner and not whatever this circus was. "You don’t want to ruin the surprise, do you?"

"I—what—how would I ruin the—?"

"By being predictable," he said, cutting the engine and stepping out. "Come on."

I blinked. Hard. Still sitting there. Still trying to understand how I’d lost control of my life in exactly three-point-five seconds.

Then he opened my door and offered me a hand like some kind of infuriating prince. "Firefly."

I took it. Because apparently, I never learn.

By the time we got inside the penthouse, I was fuming. Quietly. Internally. Wondering for the millionth time why I let him get on my nerves so easily, why I’m back in his place without storming out.

And the answer came too fast: because I liked it.

I liked him.

But God help me, you couldn’t torture that confession out of me even if you used fire and pliers and my student debt.

We stepped into the apartment—and stopped.

Okay, I stopped.

Because there, on the massive dining table that looked like it belonged in some royal palace, was a literal buffet. Not like pizza and chips. Like... gold-dusted macarons, trays of sushi that looked like they came from heaven’s kitchen, steaming bowls of soup, pasta that smelled so good it made my eyes roll back, pastries, roasted duck, grilled salmon... What the actual hell.

A chef was still arranging the last dish with tweezers. Tweezers. Like he was prepping It for Vogue.

I turned to Kael, wide-eyed, and hissed, "What is this?"

He didn’t even blink. "Dinner."

"Whose dinner?"

"Ours."

My brain broke a little.

He walked over like this wasn’t absolutely unhinged. "I asked my private chef to make something for you."

"For me?"

Kael nodded. "I wasn’t sure what all of your favorite dishes were, so I told him to make a variety. I figured you’d like the options."

I stared at him. Then at the table. Then back at him.

"You had your private chef cook... a gourmet feast... for me."

He tilted his head. "It’s just a small appreciation."

"A small appreciation?"

"For taking care of me. When I was sick."

Oh. Oh, no.

Because just like that, my heart—my traitorous, unreliable heart—started sprinting. And not in a normal way. No. It was the full-on, Olympic, I’m-going-to-ruin-my-life kind of sprinting.

He stood there, being all sincere and thoughtful and—ugh—sweet. Sweet. Kael Roman. Sweet. It was like the devil himself preaching salvation.

I couldn’t breathe.

So I did the only logical thing: I turned around and walked straight into his room. Didn’t say a word. Just fled the scene of the crime like my soul depended on it.

Once inside, I closed the door, leaned against it, and nearly screamed into my hands.

Why? Why did he have to be like this?

Why did he have to make it so hard to hate him?

I stood there, cheeks burning, pulse racing, muttering to myself like a lunatic. "Get a grip. Get. A. Grip. You are not falling for him. You can’t fall for him. That is literally the end of the contract. You like your contract. You like your distance. You like hating him. You like—"

My reflection in the small mirror hung in the room looked like it wanted to slap me.

"Ugh. Screw you, Kael."

And the worst part?

I could still smell the damn duck. And it smelled like betrayal.

....

I was pacing.

Like full-on pacing a hole into Kael’s designer rug. Because my heart wouldn’t slow down, and my thoughts were doing somersaults, and my face—my damn face—refused to stop being red.

I needed water. I needed to breathe. I needed therapy. I needed to get out of here.

Of course, that’s when the door creaked open and he walked in.

Kael frowned immediately, taking in my erratic energy. "Did... Did I do something wrong?"

I stopped in my tracks like a glitching NPC and blinked at him. "What?"

"The food." He glanced back toward the dining room like it had personally insulted my family. "You just walked away. I thought maybe you didn’t like it."

Oh, no. He looked genuinely confused. Genuinely concerned. Which only made it worse. Arrrrrgh screw you Kael!

I folded my arms tightly. "I said nevermind. It’s not a big deal."

But Kael, being the absolute chaos incarnate that he is, didn’t ever take "nevermind" as an actual answer.

"I’ll tell the chef to make another variety. Something you choose this time. We’ll do a full tasting menu—"

"Kael, no!" I said, panicking, because this man was really about to commission a Michelin-grade re-do. "That’s not necessary."

"But you didn’t eat anything," he said, and my God, the way his brows furrowed like it physically hurt him that I wasn’t diving into the lobster tart. "And you seem upset."

"That doesn’t mean you throw away a whole feast," I muttered, rubbing my temple. "Do you even realize how expensive that looked?"

He tilted his head. "And? You didn’t like it. Why keep it?"

I opened my mouth to argue. Closed it. Opened it again.

God. I hate how genuine he is when he says stuff like that. Like it makes sense to just yeet an entire five-star meal into the void because I didn’t moan in appreciation over the crème brûlée.

I huffed, finally mumbling, "I just felt dizzy, okay? That’s all. Not the food."

His entire face changed.

"You’re dizzy?"

And then suddenly he was way too close and his hand was reaching for my forehead and—oh no, he felt it. My stupid feverish skin.

"You’re warm. Are you perhaps falling sick too?" He murmured, brows pinching again,

"I’m not falling sick," I snapped, slapping his hand away like a flustered anime character. "I’m fine. Don’t touch me."

But he didn’t move. He just stared, eyes scanning my face like he could see straight through to the spiraling going on in my head.

I couldn’t take it. I turned on my heel and stormed back to the dining table, muttering curses under my breath, mostly aimed at myself.

Because my heart was racing. My hands were sweating. My cheeks were blazing.

And I hated it.

I hated how he made me feel like this—like maybe, just maybe... this wasn’t all pretend anymore.

And the worst part?

I wasn’t sure I wanted it to be.

I sat down and glared at the duck like it owed me money. I didn’t know how much longer I could keep doing this. Keeping him out. Keeping me out.

But I sure as hell was going to try.

Even if it killed me.

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