CHAPTER 23: DRUNK (II)

Aiden’s POV

Looking at the little minx across from me, I can’t help but think about the colossal headache she’s going to be. As much as she’s the perfect candidate for this arrangement, she’s also chaos incarnate. Pure, unbridled chaos.

And me? I’m order. Control. Precision. My life runs like a well-oiled machine. Everything has its place, its purpose, and its limits. But her? She’s like a storm barreling through, undoing years of carefully constructed stability.

I know I need to make this work. For my mother. For my mother’s hardwork. For my future. But as I look at her again, watching the way she navigates the meal with an elegance that doesn’t match her current life circumstances, I notice something else: the wine.

She’s drinking too much of it. Four glasses already. And now she’s eyeing the fifth like it’s her long-lost lover. Stupid. Doesn’t she realize what she’s doing? By the time we leave, she’ll be drunk off her ass, and if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s drunkards.

I narrow my eyes, glaring at her, silently telling her to put the damn glass down. But no. She meets my gaze, smirks ever so slightly, and raises the glass as if she’s making a toast—to defiance, perhaps. Then, in one unrefined move, she gulps down the remaining wine in a single go.

Half a glass. Gone. Just like that.

I want to groan. No, I want to slam my head against the table. It’s official—I’m going to have to deal with her drunken antics, and the very thought makes my skin crawl.

It’s not the lack of refinement that bothers me. Sure, the way she downed that wine was far from polished, but I can let that slide. What grates on me is the prospect of dealing with her drunken self. If her sober self is this infuriating, what the hell will her drunk self be like?

And as much as she’s trying to act like she’s still perfectly composed, I know better. The alcohol hasn’t hit her fully yet, but it will. The moment she stands up, it’ll all come crashing down, and I’ll be left to clean up the mess.

Fantastic, I think bitterly. She’s going to be my wife in three days, and I already feel like I’m babysitting her.

I leaned back in my chair, the remnants of my meal pushed neatly aside, watching as she polished off hers with a contented smile plastered across her face. The picture of satisfaction. Except for one glaring problem—the wine. She’d had too much of it, and it was only a matter of time before the alcohol caught up with her.

I glanced at her glass, now empty again, and suppressed the urge to sigh. "Drink some water," I said, my tone clipped but neutral. "It’ll help."

She waved me off with an almost regal air, as if dismissing my concern was the most natural thing in the world. "I’m too full," she replied, her words slightly slurred. "I couldn’t hold down another drink of water."

The slurring was unmistakable now. Great. The wine was kicking in, just as I’d predicted. My jaw tightened, and I forced myself to breathe deeply. Losing my temper wouldn’t help. But damn it, I hated being ignored.

"You’ll regret it," I said flatly, my patience wearing thin. "Water now, or you’ll feel like hell later."

She shrugged, the epitome of indifference, and popped the last bite of her food into her mouth. "Later problem," she mumbled.

I closed my eyes briefly, silently counting to ten. My usual calm, methodical approach to problems was being tested to its absolute limit.

I considered calling my assistant, Tobias. He could handle this. Babysitting wasn’t in my job description. But then I remembered—he was halfway across the world, handling an issue in one of my overseas investments. Perfect timing. Just my luck.

Fine, I thought grimly. This is my mess to clean up.

She leaned back in her chair, smiling lazily. If she weren’t about to become my wife in three days, I might have found the scene amusing—her smug defiance, the slight sway in her posture as the alcohol began to take full effect. But instead, all I felt was irritation.

"I suppose we should leave," I said, standing and adjusting my jacket. "Unless you’re planning to order another bottle of wine."

She laughed, a light, almost musical sound, and shook her head. "Nope. I’m good."

"Good," I replied curtly, moving to her side of the table.

"Wait!" she exclaimed suddenly, waving a hand dramatically. "I forgot to grab my purse."

I frowned. "You didn’t bring one."

"Oh." She blinked up at me, clearly confused for a moment before shrugging again. "Guess I’m all set then."

This is going to be a long night, I thought, already dreading the walk to the car.

I offered her a hand, more out of necessity than chivalry. She looked at it as if I’d handed her a puzzle she couldn’t quite solve, then reached out and grabbed it, her fingers surprisingly warm against mine.

She stood—or tried to.

As soon as she was upright, her knees wobbled, and she swayed precariously. My reflexes kicked in, and I grabbed her arm before she could topple over completely.

"Easy," I said, my voice sharp. "I told you the wine would hit once you stood up."

Her head tilted back, and she looked at me with wide, slightly dazed eyes. "I’m fine," she insisted, though her footing told a very different story.

I arched a brow, unimpressed. "Clearly."

She tried to shake me off, mumbling something about not needing my help, but I held firm. "Stop fighting me," I snapped. "Unless you want to end up face-first on the floor."

She froze, pouting slightly but making no further attempts to pull away. "You’re so bossy," she muttered under her breath.

"And you’re drunk," I retorted.

Her mouth opened, undoubtedly to argue, but at that moment, she lost her balance again, swaying dangerously. I tightened my grip, holding her steady.

"Alright," I said through gritted teeth. "Let’s get you out of here before you make a scene."

"A scene?" she echoed, her tone mock-offended. "I don’t make scenes. I’m very—what’s the word—poised?"

I didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, I slipped an arm around her waist, guiding her toward the door. She leaned into me more than I would have liked, her steps uneven and her head lolling slightly.

The restaurant staff watched us as we passed, their expressions carefully neutral. No doubt they were used to dealing with tipsy patrons, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that they were silently judging me.

Let them judge, I thought. I don’t care.

As we reached the exit, I felt her tense beside me. "Wait," she said, her voice suddenly urgent.

"What now?" I asked, my patience fraying.

"I forgot something."

"What?"

"My dignity," she said with a giggle, leaning heavily against me.

I closed my eyes, exhaling slowly. This woman is going to be the death of me.

We stepped outside, the cool night air hitting us like a slap. She shivered, and I resisted the urge to shrug off my jacket and drape it over her shoulders. She didn’t deserve the courtesy after everything she’d put me through tonight.

As we approached the car, she stumbled again, this time harder than before. Despite my grip on her arm, she swayed dangerously, her balance giving out completely.

Time seemed to slow as I saw it happening—the inevitable collapse. She was falling.

And in that split second, I had a choice: let her hit the ground and teach her a lesson, or catch her and save us both the embarrassment.