CHAPTER 12: CHAPTER 12:FANCY RESTAURANT

Alexia POV

So yeah, just like I suspected, the place was damn luxurious.

We’re talking the kind of restaurant that you see on TV—the ones with golden chandeliers, napkins folded like swans, and waiters who look like they were plucked straight from some posh butler academy. Just standing outside the entrance made me feel like a fish out of water. No, scratch that—like a fish stranded in the middle of the Sahara Desert.

I tugged at the hoodie I’d chosen—my old, stained, spaghetti-splattered masterpiece—and glanced at my shoes. Sneakers that had clearly seen better days. My reflection stared back at me from the restaurant’s polished glass doors, and for a second, I almost chickened out.

Okay, Alexia, maybe this was a bad idea.

But then I remembered him—Mr. Almond Milk. The rich jerk who told me to "dress decently." As if I existed to meet his ridiculous standards. I huffed, squaring my shoulders and ignoring the hostess’s slightly raised eyebrow as I stomped through the entrance.

Yeah, immediately, the guard saw me and hit me with the classic, "There aren’t any jobs available."

Okay. I can handle this.

Deep breath, Alexia.

I plastered on a fake smile and squared my shoulders, ready to roll with my newfound attitude. "Who said I’m here for a job? I have an appointment," I said, like I belonged here. Like I wasn’t rocking a hoodie, scuffed sneakers, and the kind of "I don’t care" energy that screamed anything but appointment-worthy.

The guard, of course, gave me that look.

You know the one. Skeptical. Annoyed. Like I’d wandered into a palace uninvited, and he was two seconds away from tossing me out. I rolled my eyes so hard I felt like they might actually get stuck in the back of my head.

"Listen," I added, tilting my chin up. "If you don’t believe me, fine. Follow me around. Keep guard or whatever. And hey—if I’m lying, you can carry me out like a princess."

That earned me another look. This one said: ’Is this woman unhinged?’

Okay. New strategy.

I sighed dramatically, flipping my hair back just for effect. "Look, I’m not here to waste anyone’s time. Just call the main desk and ask if Mr. Aiden—" (because ’Almond Milk Guy’ was not going to help my case here) "—is expecting a casually dressed, beautiful lady."

Yeah, I said it. Casually dressed and beautiful. Sue me. Confidence is all I had going for me. Besides, where have you ever seen an ugly princess? I was living proof that at least my face still held some dignity, even if my outfit didn’t.

The guard’s mouth twitched like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. "Beautiful lady?" he repeated, deadpan.

"Yes. Gorgeous, even," I shot back, waving a hand dismissively. "Go ahead and make the call. Or don’t. It’s up to you. But when I walk away and tell Mr. Self-Entitled Jerk that his guard wouldn’t let me in, I’ll make sure to say your name specifically."

The mention of Aiden did the trick. Like magic, the guard paled, his skepticism replaced with a thin layer of panic. I fought the urge to grin triumphantly as he fumbled for his phone and called the main desk.

"Uh... yes. There’s someone here... says she has an appointment with Mr. Aiden. Casual clothes... says she’s, um... beautiful."

I gave him a thumbs-up for accuracy. He glared at me.

After a moment of muffled conversation, the guard hung up and gestured toward the entrance, begrudgingly stepping aside. "You’re allowed in."

"Thank you," I said, grinning like the petty menace I was, and sauntered through the doors like I owned the place.

But the struggle wasn’t over. Oh, no.

The moment I stepped into the main reception area, I was greeted with more disbelieving faces. Two women behind the desk—both in perfectly pressed suits and with expressions that screamed ’We judge everyone’

—eyed me like I’d tracked mud all over their expensive floors.

"Can I help you?" one of them asked, her tone polite but dripping with thinly veiled disdain.

I sighed. Here we go again.

"Mr. Aiden reserved a table for two," I said simply, throwing my thumb over my shoulder. "I’m the other person."

They blinked. Both of them. One of them exchanged a look with the other, clearly trying to figure out if I was delusional or just lost.

"Are you... sure?" the second woman asked, skeptical.

Sure? Was she serious?

"No, I’m lying for fun," I shot back. "Of course I’m sure."

"But—"

Before she could finish her sentence, I did what any self-respecting, over-it woman in my position would do: I ignored them entirely.

"Look," I said, flipping my hair again for added drama as I marched forward, "I don’t need your permission to sit at a table that’s already been reserved for me. So, either you stop me—" I gestured to my non-existent entourage—"or you can let me walk right through like the very important guest I am."

Their mouths fell open, but no one stopped me. Victory.

With that, I strolled past the reception desk, my head held high like I belonged in the luxurious, marble-floored hellscape. I knew their eyes were burning holes into the back of my hoodie, but honestly? I didn’t care.

By now, you should know one thing about me: I always do what I’m not supposed to do.

If Aiden thought I’d come crawling in like some meek little peasant, he was dead wrong. I might be broke, jobless, and dressed like a walking laundry pile, but I still had pride. And if I was going to be his so-called fiancée, he’d have to take me exactly as I was: chaos, attitude, and all.

And for the first time all day, I smiled. Because something told me this ridiculous meeting was about to get very interesting.

The inside was even worse. The air smelled like money—and truffle oil, probably—and the people dining looked like they had yachts named after them. All of them dressed in designer clothes, sipping wine that probably cost more than my rent. My presence? Let’s just say I stood out like a graffiti mural at an art gallery.

Good.

I wasn’t here to blend in anyway.