THE LOST HEIRESS RETURNS AFTER DIVORCE
Chapter 45: THIS IS NOT A REAL - DONT UNLOCK

Chapter 45: THIS IS NOT A REAL Chapter DONT UNLOCK

Heather wasn’t in the mood to go out. She had almost backed out, twice.

She had ignored Jake’s text three times before finally replying, and even then, it was only a short: Fine. What time?

She didn’t know why she said yes. Maybe because she wanted to get out of the house for a bit. Maybe it was the thought of being ungrateful toward a sponsor. Or maybe she just needed a distraction. Something that didn’t look like an argument, or feel like a memory.

Jake said it was a dinner with some of the other sponsors. He made it sound casual—like something she couldn’t really say no to. And technically, she couldn’t. Not when her movie had both his name and Caius’s company backing it.

She didn’t ride in his car, she wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction. Instead, she called for hers, let the driver take the long way just so she could think, and sat in the backseat playing with her ring, and chewing the inside of her cheek the whole way. Something felt off, but she couldn’t quite place it.

The restaurant was tucked away in the upper hills, the kind that served on rare days.

Heather stepped out of the car, smoothing her coat. Her heels clicked against the stone path as she walked inside, not seeing Jake anywhere near the entrance.

She went to the hostess instead.

> "Hi, I’m here for a reservation. Under Calloway."

The woman smiled politely, checked the list, and nodded.

> "Of course. Right this way, Ma’am."

She followed the woman in silence, her eyes quickly scanning the room as they walked. The tables were dimly lit, surrounded by couples murmuring over wine and candlelight. Heather’s brow knit slightly. This didn’t look like a place people picked for business meetings. It looked like a place where people proposed.

Still, she said nothing.

Until the hostess stopped at a small, private table tucked near the window. Two seats. One already taken, and it was Jake.

He was sitting comfortably, glass of wine in hand, phone placed face-down beside his plate. He looked up when he saw her and smiled like he hadn’t done anything wrong.

> "You look great," he said, eyes raking her frame for a moment too long.

She didn’t respond. Just gave him a tight-lipped smile and her eyes stayed on the table.

> "Where are the other sponsors?" she asked flatly.

Jake cleared his throat and glanced to the side, pretending to study the menu. "What do you feel like eating? They’ve got great—"

> "Jake," she said again, firmer this time. "Where are the others?"

He sighed, then gestured to the seat across from him.

> "They’re on their way. We happened to arrive earlier."

Heather looked at the table again. Just two seats, no extra glasses, or menus for anyone else. Her brows furrowed deeper as her eyes scanned the room. This wasn’t a dinner with sponsors. It looked like a setup.

> "Jake, what the fuck?"

That’s when she noticed it. There were no other seats. No menus set aside, or sign of other people coming.

Jake stood, pulling her seat out. "We got here early."

She didn’t sit.

> "It’s a two-person table."

He exhaled, long and quiet. "Okay. Fine. I lied."

Heather looked at him, her jaw tightening.

He looked at her, face softening. "Look—Heather—I only lied because I knew you wouldn’t come if I told you the truth."

> "So you tricked me?"

> "I just wanted to talk."

> "Do I look like a fucking idiot to you?"

He ran a hand through his hair and muttered, "I just wanted to have dinner. One dinner. Nothing weird."

> "You think lying to me makes me want to sit down and enjoy a meal with you?" she snapped, grabbing her bag.

> "No, Heather, I just... I knew you wouldn’t come if I asked you out directly."

> "Fuck you and your explanation," she muttered, grabbing her bag, already turning.

He reached out, gently catching her wrist, the other one. "Please. Just stay. Just for a while.". Then he noticed the bandage on her wrist. He knew better not to ask.

She yanked her hand back, disgust clear in her expression. She opened her mouth to speak again, to tell him exactly how she felt about this whole thing, when it happened.

There was a crash. Plates and glass shattered against the floor causing a bang. Everyone turned their heads at once, to the center of the room, where a waiter tripped. He groaned on the floor.

A few gasps sounded around the room, chairs scraping as customers shifted to look. The poor guy groaned on the floor, trying to collect the mess with shaky hands.

Heather’s eyes were on him.

She didn’t flinch, just stared, letting the chaos fill the silence that had started between her and Jake.

The chef appeared seconds later, rushing out from the kitchen, bowing slightly as he apologized to every table within earshot. Heather barely heard him.

Jake cleared his throat. "Heather—"

She turned slightly, ready to tell him to save it. But the words never made it out.

Because then... she saw them.

Her eyes locked on a pair of green eyes across the room.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. His expression unreadable—stern, maybe even angry—but not surprised. Like he’d seen this coming.

Heather froze.

And her eyes locked on his.

Caius.

He sat at a table just across the room. Sharp suit. Cold eyes. But staring at her like she’d just walked into his warzone.

And then she saw her.

Lauren.

Seated across from him, a dress barely covering her thighs. Her chest pushed up, her smile lazy and satisfied. She turned too, following Caius’s gaze—then spotted Heather.

Her smile widened.

Heather’s spine straightened. Her jaw set. And without a word, she turned back to Jake and sat down.

> "Change of plans," she said, voice even. "I’m staying."

Jake blinked. "Wait—seriously?"

She nodded. "Why not?"

He looked surprised, but pleased. He sat back down. "Good. I was hoping you would."

He started talking—something about edits, or the new promo strategy—but Heather only half-listened. Because she could *feel* him. His eyes, burning across the room, watching every move she made.

Her phone buzzed on the table.

She glanced.

**Caius**: *What are you doing here?*

She didn’t answer. Didn’t even react. Just turned the screen off, slid the phone away, and gave Jake a smile.

> "Sorry. What were you saying again?"

Heather wasn’t in the mood to go out. She had almost backed out, twice.

She had ignored Jake’s text three times before finally replying, and even then, it was only a short: Fine. What time?

She didn’t know why she said yes. Maybe because she wanted to get out of the house for a bit. Maybe it was the thought of being ungrateful toward a sponsor. Or maybe she just needed a distraction. Something that didn’t look like an argument, or feel like a memory.

Jake said it was a dinner with some of the other sponsors. He made it sound casual—like something she couldn’t really say no to. And technically, she couldn’t. Not when her movie had both his name and Caius’s company backing it.

She didn’t ride in his car, she wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction. Instead, she called for hers, let the driver take the long way just so she could think, and sat in the backseat playing with her ring, and chewing the inside of her cheek the whole way. Something felt off, but she couldn’t quite place it.

The restaurant was tucked away in the upper hills, the kind that served on rare days.

Heather stepped out of the car, smoothing her coat. Her heels clicked against the stone path as she walked inside, not seeing Jake anywhere near the entrance.

She went to the hostess instead.

> "Hi, I’m here for a reservation. Under Calloway."

The woman smiled politely, checked the list, and nodded.

> "Of course. Right this way, Ma’am."

She followed the woman in silence, her eyes quickly scanning the room as they walked. The tables were dimly lit, surrounded by couples murmuring over wine and candlelight. Heather’s brow knit slightly. This didn’t look like a place people picked for business meetings. It looked like a place where people proposed.

Still, she said nothing.

Until the hostess stopped at a small, private table tucked near the window. Two seats. One already taken, and it was Jake.

He was sitting comfortably, glass of wine in hand, phone placed face-down beside his plate. He looked up when he saw her and smiled like he hadn’t done anything wrong.

> "You look great," he said, eyes raking her frame for a moment too long.

She didn’t respond. Just gave him a tight-lipped smile and her eyes stayed on the table.

> "Where are the other sponsors?" she asked flatly.

Jake cleared his throat and glanced to the side, pretending to study the menu. "What do you feel like eating? They’ve got great—"

> "Jake," she said again, firmer this time. "Where are the others?"

He sighed, then gestured to the seat across from him.

> "They’re on their way. We happened to arrive earlier."

Heather looked at the table again. Just two seats, no extra glasses, or menus for anyone else. Her brows furrowed deeper as her eyes scanned the room. This wasn’t a dinner with sponsors. It looked like a setup.

> "Jake, what the fuck?"

That’s when she noticed it. There were no other seats. No menus set aside, or sign of other people coming.

Jake stood, pulling her seat out. "We got here early."

She didn’t sit.

> "It’s a two-person table."

He exhaled, long and quiet. "Okay. Fine. I lied."

Heather looked at him, her jaw tightening.

He looked at her, face softening. "Look—Heather—I only lied because I knew you wouldn’t come if I told you the truth."

> "So you tricked me?"

> "I just wanted to talk."

> "Do I look like a fucking idiot to you?"

He ran a hand through his hair and muttered, "I just wanted to have dinner. One dinner. Nothing weird."

> "You think lying to me makes me want to sit down and enjoy a meal with you?" she snapped, grabbing her bag.

> "No, Heather, I just... I knew you wouldn’t come if I asked you out directly."

> "Fuck you and your explanation," she muttered, grabbing her bag, already turning.

He reached out, gently catching her wrist, the other one. "Please. Just stay. Just for a while.". Then he noticed the bandage on her wrist. He knew better not to ask.

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