Chapter 20
TWENTY
LUCAS
It’s Wednesday, and Alexander hasn’t touched me since last Friday.
Not a brush of his fingers. Not a kiss. Only the lingering look he always gives me that settles over me like smoke, thick and impossible to ignore.
It’s not like I expect him to touch me every day… I mean, I’m not his boyfriend or anything. I don’t even know what I am to him. And it’s not like I care.
Except I do. God, I do.
The truth is ever since Monday, I haven’t used my voice with him, and I think I have been a little distant or maybe not, it’s just I don’t know how to process what this is with us, and having him close to me and wanting him to touch me all the time makes me a little angry, I should not like it, I should not want him.
But then Alex is acting distant too, and I don’t know why it’s getting to me.
I’m being pathetic, I know, sue me, but it’s the first time in my entire life I’ve felt this drawn to anyone like this after being in my shell for years.
Alex is… Alex. Stoic, unreadable, cold in a way that isn’t cruel but distant—like he doesn’t know how to be soft unless he’s touching me.
He’s always been like that, and I should be used to it by now.
But I’m not. Not after we’ve kissed. Not after his hands on my waist, his mouth on my throat, and the sound of his name breaking out of me like I’d never spoken it before.
And now we’re back to this—
Me, in his house, teaching him ASL. Him, sitting across from me like nothing ever happened. No mention of the kisses. The tension. The way I’d clung to him like he was the only solid thing in a world that keeps trying to swallow me whole.
And whose fault is that, Lucas?
I know that the first time he kissed me I told him I didn’t want to talk about it, but we have done more than kisses now, so much more that I came just from grinding into him.
But now it’s the same routine we had before the kiss: I come over. We do two to three hours of ASL. He offers dinner, then he tells me the driver’s waiting downstairs, and I go home, stomach in knots, wondering what the hell I mean to him.
I look up at him now as he finishes signing a complete sentence—fluid, almost perfect. He holds my gaze like he always does, his blue eyes burning with a kind of restrained intensity I don’t understand. He tilts his head, silently asking if he got it right.
I nod.
My phone timer rings out, the sharp sound slices through the air between us.
I turn it off, and the silence that follows is heavy.
I exhale, trying not to let it show on my face—how tired I am of pretending I’m fine.
I want to ask him why he’s acting like nothing happened, why he hasn’t touched me.
He looked at me like he wanted to ruin me, only to leave me untouched for days, like I imagined it all.
But I don’t.
He leans back in his chair, arms folding across his chest. His gaze fixes on me with unsettling focus, like he’s dissecting me from the inside out.
“Are you alright? Something’s worrying you,” he says, tone quiet but firm.
You think? I want to say, but I don’t.
I shake my head, and instead of talking, I sign an “I am fine,” knowing he will understand it. He doesn’t buy it. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, just slightly. But he nods anyway, like he’s letting it go.
Then he says,
“I want you to come with me to a dinner party.”
I blink.
“What?” I say aloud, my voice soft, rough from disuse. I haven’t spoken all week. Haven’t wanted to. But that word comes out before I can stop it.
His expression doesn’t change.
“My mother is having a formal dinner party on Saturday night,” he says, “and you’re invited.”
A thousand things flicker through me all at once. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Why does he even want me at this dinner party? Just then, something clicks, and I remember when the red-haired lady I saw here last week said something about a dinner party.
“Are you inviting me because that lady who was here told you to give me an invite?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Alexander exhales, then shakes his head.
“I am inviting you because I want you there.”
***
I keep tossing and turning in my bed, my blanket twisted around my legs like it’s trying to hold me down and keep me still when my head won’t.
I stare at the ceiling, the soft hum of the standing fan the only sound in the room besides the occasional groan that slips past my lips every time I replay yesterday’s conversation.
“I want you to come with me to a dinner party.”
And I had finally said yes.
God. Why did I say yes?
Alex told me it was just a small dinner celebration for his mother’s skincare brand, which had recently launched. Nothing about Alex or his family is small.
His grandfather inherited and owns one of the largest iron and steel industries in Russia, as well as a tobacco company.
His father is one of the most terrifyingly powerful men in investment, real estate, and construction.
He practically owns half the damn city and probably a few politicians, too.
And his mother, Christ. She’s the daughter of one of Thailand’s most prominent fashion and retail dynasties.
I looked her up once. Every photo of her on magazine covers, draped in silk and diamonds, standing next to international designers, smiling with so much grace.
At fifty, she looked magnificent. And she’s also the owner of Davis Beauty, a popular skin care and makeup brand.
They’re not just rich. They’re old money rich.
The kind that feels inhuman and tied to bloodlines.
How the hell am I supposed to be among these types of people?
With a groan, I walk to my small closet, flipping through hangers out of habit even though I already know what’s in there, running my hand through each fabric, rows and rows of thrifted jackets, shirts, hoodies, khaki pants, and jeans.
I don’t own a suit. Or a tux. Or anything even remotely close to what I’d need to wear for something like this.
I hate suits anyway. Always hated them and would cry whenever my mother forced me to wear them to the Sunday school lesson, which almost all the kids in the trailer park attended.
My skin crawls as I think of the last time I wore a suit, that was also the last time I attended that Sunday school, and then—
I shut myself out of the memory quickly, pinching myself so hard that I feel the memories going away.
not today demon
I walk back to the bed with a sigh, flopping down like gravity’s heavier today. I grab my phone from the nightstand —still can’t believe Alexander bought it for me —and open the messages, hovering over his name.
Just say you can’t go, say something came up, say you changed your mind. Because the thought of walking into that world with him—of standing beside him while people look at me—makes my chest feel like it’s caving in. I’d rather disappear than face that.
I start typing, then backspace.
Type again.
Delete.
Then my phone buzzes hard in my hand. I jolt, and my pulse jumps as I see it’s from Alex. Why is he calling? We don’t even have ASL sessions on Thursdays.
Biting my lips, I answer.
“Hello?”
“I’m downstairs,” His monotone voice is calm and direct like always. “Get ready. I’m taking you somewhere.”
My breath catches.
“What?”
“Stop making me repeat myself, Lucas,” he says with a sigh. “You have fifteen minutes to meet me downstairs, or else I will come up myself and drag you with me.”
And he hangs up.
I blink. Staring at the screen. Did that just happen?
Knowing that Alexander will come up here to drag me, as he promised, I rush to the bathroom, brush and shower quickly, and I avoid pouring water on my hair because it will take minutes to curl and dry.
Thirteen minutes later, I’m already dressed up and rushing down the stairs of my apartment building.
An SUV is waiting by the curb. Standing by the back door is the same driver who takes me to Alexander’s place.
He’s stoic as always. I have a feeling he’s not just a driver but a bodyguard of some sort.
When he sees me, he gives me a polite nod and opens the door without a word.
I nod back awkwardly as usual and slide into the backseat.
The warmth hits me first, followed by the smell of expensive leather and polished wood.
The faint Cologne that I’ve come to register as Alexander’s — dark, clean, and dangerous — wraps around me like a second skin and presses on every thought I’m trying to suppress.
Ashley's in the front passenger seat, and she turns slightly when she hears me enter.
“Hello, Lucas,” she says, smiling warmly.
I wave a hi to her with a polite smile, then turn to the side to look at Alex.
I feel his stare ever since I entered the car, and now, looking at his handsome face, which I honestly can’t get used to, warms something in my chest.
The car pulls away from the curb with a soft hum.
“Where are we going?” I ask low and quiet, leaning toward him a little so the two in the front won’t hear my voice.
Alex’s eyes stay on me for a beat before he answers.
“To get you something to wear for the dinner.”
I blink at him, surprised.
“Oh?”
“You’ll need an outfit.”
A moment passes. I let the words sink in.
Then I sigh and shake my head, my voice falling into something softer.
“I know it’s a formal dinner, but… I don’t like wearing suits or tuxes.”
Alex nods, like he expected that.
“I figured,” he says simply. “There are other outfits planned out.”
Of course, there are. I bite my lip, frustrated and not sure why. I don’t miss the way Alex’s eyes drop to my lips, then flick back up to meet my gaze.
“I still don’t understand why you want me at this dinner,” I say, barely audible.
“Because I want you there. With me,” comes his reply
The words hit something deep.
With me.