Seventeen
SEVENTEEN
LUCAS
H e’s actually here.
How did he even manage to show up? When did he arrive? And most importantly, why ?
It's been six months since we last spoke, and I can't help but feel a twinge of resentment towards him, even though I know I should be the responsible older brother and support him. But then again, he's a grown man who claims he doesn't need anyone to tell him what to do.
After our conversation—if one can even call it that—I couldn't focus on anything else.
Not even Leora’s attempts to comfort me could break through the haze of my thoughts, so I chug what’s left in my whiskey glass. There’s a fleeting pang of guilt from when I caught the hurt in her eyes, but right now, there’s not much I can do.
Whatever it is that she wants to know, I’m not ready to talk about just yet.
For the next hour, we put on a show for our guests, as if nothing ever happened—holding hands, exchanging smiles, and engaging in light conversation. Whenever a question about how we met comes up—a conversation we’ve yet to have, mainly because I hadn't anticipated a wedding—Leora smiles and says something about social media and how I "slid into her DM's." Whatever that means. I’m not a big social media guy, and I’d rather live without it, but I have to say, I prefer that narrative over the truth. I’d rather be the stalker she paints me to be than the weird man who propositioned a woman to be his fake wife in exchange for money and a job.
The press would have a field day with that one.
As the event draws to a close, my attention lands on Leora, who’s standing next to my uncle, laughing at whatever he’s saying. I maneuver through the crowd, making my way towards them. Strangely, seeing her beside him almost makes me happy about the situation we’re in.
"Let’s go," I say abruptly, catching both of them off guard.
"Go where?" she says with a puzzled look on her face.
"Home."
"What do you mean? I'm staying here."
"I mean," I say, my voice determined, "that you're coming home with me." Her expression shifts from surprise to disbelief. She turns to my uncle, seemingly for confirmation, but he simply looks back at me, a glimmer of approval in his eyes.
Her arms cross in front of her chest as she retorts, "No, I'm not."
I can practically feel the stubbornness radiating off her, and a headache is starting to form, but I try to keep my tone composed, despite the need to drag her out of the hotel. "Yes, you are."
Leora shakes her head, her voice laced with a challenge. "Why can't I stay at the hotel?"
"I’m not going to argue about this. You’re staying with me." I lower my voice. "How do you expect people to believe we’re newlyweds if you stay at my hotel?"
I watch as her shoulders tense up, and her demeanor shifts as if she's about to start an argument. But then, after a second, she relaxes slightly, probably coming to her senses and realizing I’m right, or she’s simply too tired to argue. She concedes with a resigned tone. "Fine. But I need my stuff."
After we’ve gathered "her stuff," which consists of one suitcase, we make our way to the car.
This is it. Leora is my wife, and now my roommate.
I can't help but feel a sense of unease wash over me. This is the first time I've ever lived with a woman, let alone a significant other. And the idea of not knowing how it will play out is making me nervous. I sneak a sidelong glance at Leora, her gaze fixed on the passing cars outside the window. She seems distant, her posture tense and her fingers restlessly fidgeting in her lap. She's clearly uncomfortable with the whole "living together" arrangement. What had I expected? Of course she’s uncomfortable, but I’ll try my best to make her feel more at home.
I wish I didn't have that whiskey during the wedding because if I were sober, I could've been driving. Which would have allowed me to focus on the road rather than the woman sitting next to me, or on the kiss we'd shared.
As soon as the crowd started chanting, I knew I had to put on a show, but when my lips brushed hers, I couldn’t stop. It was as though my lips already knew hers. All I craved was more of that sweet taste. Unfortunately, the memory also leaves me with a semi every time I think of it.
Eventually, we arrive at my apartment building, and as I pick up Leora's suitcase from the trunk, I can’t help but notice that it’s light. A feeling of annoyance washes over me as I recall asking her to buy some clothes just two days prior. However, I had a feeling she wouldn’t listen. So, I took it upon myself to ask Camille to do some shopping and hang the new clothes in her room.
We step into the elevator that takes us to my penthouse, and I sneak another quick look at Leora. Her eyes dart around nervously, taking in her surroundings. There’s a slight tremble in her hands as she adjusts her grip on the strap of her purse. Her breathing seems to have quickened, and her eyes won’t meet mine, as if she’s afraid to look at me.
I let out a frustrated huff. I understand she’s nervous about moving in with me, but this level of fear seems unwarranted. It’s as if I’ve forced her into marrying me at gunpoint. If anything, considering her fiery nature and history of throwing things at my face, I should be the worried one.
As soon as the elevator doors open, she practically rushes out. I follow closely behind, noticing the relief in her eyes as she steps into the apartment. Taking the lead, I guide her into my space, trying to project a sense of calm, despite the tension that seems to be lingering between us.
Again, I can't help but notice her gaze darting around, taking in the details with a mix of wonder and trepidation. Gradually, her shoulders seem to lose some of their tension as she moves through the hallway and into the expansive living room that connects to the kitchen.
"It's so big." There’s an awe in her voice as she looks around at the floor-to-ceiling windows surrounding the sitting area.
"It is quite spacious," I respond, a faint smile tugging on the corners of my lips at her chosen words. A moment of stillness settles and I find myself captivated by how the natural light streaming in casts a soft glow on her face. She almost looks angelic.
"We'll have plenty of room for ourselves," I offer, aiming for lightness, but her answering smile seems strained, not quite reaching her eyes.
I clear my throat. "Let me show you to your room so you can change out of your dress."
I lead her to one of the guest bedrooms, choosing the door closest to the living room. My own room is strategically located on the far side of the penthouse, a considerable distance from hers. It’s the best case in this situation. That way I can keep her at arm’s length and have my own space. The truth is, we don’t need to hang out that much when we’re in private. Our roles are set. Out there, we act; in here, we exist.
Her room is cozy and well-appointed, with a comfortable, queen sized bed, soft linens—egyptian cotton, of course—and tasteful decor. A small sitting area by the window, that offers a nice view of the beach. I remember she told me she enjoys reading and that spot is perfect for it.
I turn to Leora and gesture toward the room.
"This will be your room," I try to sound as welcoming as possible, but when we step in, we both freeze.
"You really went all out, didn't you?" she says, this time with a genuine smile on her lips, but as beautiful as it is, my mind is preoccupied with what’s in front of me.
On the bed lay a bunch of rose petals forming the shape of a heart, and there’s candles scattered all around the room.
" Camille ," I hiss through my teeth. Leora’s giggle turns into full-blown laughter, and she almost topples over with amusement. Camille is my most trusted employee, the only one who knows the truth about this arrangement.
"I'm going to fire her," I grumble, though a small smirk tugs at the corner of my lips. Despite the awkwardness of this situation, her laughter is infectious, and for a moment, I forget about the complications and just enjoy the sound of it.
All I had asked Camille to do was to buy Leora some outfits and shoes. Simple.
Apparently not for Camille. Instead, what she managed to do was raise my blood pressure through the roof. Attempting to mask my annoyance, I nonchalantly shrug, trying to dismiss the situation.
"Camille wanted to surprise you," I say, trying to justify her actions.
Leora chuckles, her eyes dancing with amusement as she teases me. "Well, it looks like she surprised you even more."
I take a deep breath, reminding myself to keep my composure.
This day has been overwhelming.
I’ve married a stranger, been surprised with a wedding reception, then had to kiss said stranger. Even if my body seems to long for another taste of her lips, it still doesn’t change the fact that this whole situation is nowhere near ideal.
"There are some new clothes for you in the wardrobe," I say, changing the subject, fully expecting a retort about how she doesn't need my help or my money. But to my surprise, Leora remains silent instead.
She nods, her expression a mix of gratitude and nervousness.
"Thank you," her voice is soft as she steps deeper into the room.
"Is there anything else I can do for you?" I ask, genuinely wanting to make her feel at ease in my— our —home.
Leora shakes her head, her eyes avoiding mine. "No, I'm fine," her voice is barely above a whisper. "Thank you for showing me around."
I give her a small, reassuring smile. "All right then. How about you settle in," I say, gesturing toward the room with a nod. "If you need anything, just let me know."
Leora nods in agreement and begins unpacking her suitcase. With that, I leave the guest bedroom and head toward my room to shower and change out of this suit.
I spend more time than I intended in the shower, lost in thought as I try to devise plans for Leora and I. Other than the various business events and dinners, we'll need to be seen together in public, so we could go on a few "dates" to places where we might be spotted.
The idea of taking Leora to Paris for a weekend crosses my mind. That’s something people in love would do, right? I always hear about how going to Paris is so romantic. Which means it will be great for us, and I bet she would even be happy to visit. Isn’t Paris on every woman's bucket list?
The wedding day stretched on longer than intended. As it's almost six o’clock, I quickly change into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. Grabbing my laptop, I settle down on the sofa to go through some emails. However, my eyes keep returning to Leora’s closed door.
She’s probably getting settled in. As new as having a roommate is for me, it will be even more of an adjustment for her. Not only does she now have a husband, but she also moved to another country and into someone else’s home. I sigh and try to return to my emails, noticing one from Michel Beaumont.
A cold rush goes through my body at the sight of his name. I hate that man.
Dear Mr. Ayoub,
I hope this email finds you well. I want to extend my congratulations to you and your new wife, on your recent nuptials. Although, its last-minute nature did come as a surprise to many of us.
Unfortunately, I was unable to attend the hastily-arranged wedding reception hosted by your uncle.
Nevertheless, I would like to extend an invitation to you and your wife to join us for brunch on Monday at 11:30 a.m.
We would be honored to have you both as our guests.
Best Regards,
Michel Beaumont
Fuck me.
As if it couldn’t get any worse, now I’m going to have to spend a day with a bunch of stuck-up men, including Michel. I’m going to have to answer his email, pretend to be delighted and accept the invitation on our behalf.
This might turn out to be a shit show because we still have so much to discuss and decide. However, there's also a chance it could work in our favor. If I know Michel well enough, he will have invited a few more stakeholders, and if I read the email correctly, he’s doing this to prove a point. Meaning we'll have to put on such a convincing show of being in love so that he will have to eat his words.
I try to compose my response, carefully choosing my words to convey gratitude and enthusiasm. All lies. I express our delight at the invitation and accept it graciously on behalf of Leora and myself. I make sure to mention our upcoming honeymoon we will be taking after the hotel opening, hoping it will add an air of authenticity to our situation.
It's time to show Michel, and everyone else, that Leora and I are a united front, regardless of the initial doubts we garnered. Hopefully, it will make them back off.
I knock gently on Leora's door, not wanting to disturb her too much. "Leora?"
"What?" Her muffled voice reaches me through the closed door.
I enter the room and find her sitting on the bed with her phone in her hand. She's changed into a cute pair of white pajamas with red cherries, showcasing her toned legs. I can't deny that I find it attractive—any man would.
Any man . The mere thought of another man looking at her now that she has my ring on her finger unsettles me. It's irrational, considering our unconventional situation, but the idea of anyone else showing interest in her bothers me. She may not truly be mine, but to the outside world, she is. Still, the question lingers, why does the notion of another man looking at her bother me? I shouldn’t care, yet something inside me does.
I quickly shake off the thought and refocus on her, reminding myself that we have important matters to discuss.
"I didn't say come in," she says sharply.
"You didn't say not to come in either."
"What do you want, Lucas?"
"We need to talk"—I gesture between us—"about this whole thing. How we met, why we got married, your likes and dislikes. I need to know more than just your favorite color, which, by the way, I remember is blue." I add the last part before she has the chance to ask.
Her response is blunt. "You slid into my DMs, I found you hot and we fell in love. End of story. A modern day fairytale." She's testing my patience, which is already wearing thin.
I take a deep breath and try to keep my composure as I motion for her to follow me to the living room. To my surprise, she does so without arguing. That's twice today, and if it happens a third time, I think I'll have to reward her in some way to encourage this behavior.
As she walks past me, I can't help but steal another glance at her legs, tracing the smooth lines, the gentle curve of her calf, and the delicate arch of her ankle—it's impossible not to stare. However, when I notice she's glanced back at me, raising her brow at my unintentional staring, I quickly avert my eyes.
She sits down on the far end of the sofa, as far away from me as possible, leaving a subtle scent of vanilla lingering in the air. It remains, heightening my senses and sending a tingling sensation coursing through my body.
"Before we start, let's order some food. Do you want sushi?" I propose. But as soon as the question leaves my lips, I see her wrinkling her nose and her face contorting in disgust. Sushi is clearly not on her list of favorite foods, and she doesn't hesitate to let me know.
"I hate sushi."
"Noted," I reply. "Alright, what about pizza then?" I suggest, hoping for a more favorable reaction. This time, she nods in agreement.
Perfect, pizza it is. I proceed to order one Diavola for myself and one Margherita for her.
Shifting gears, I mention, "We've also got an invitation for a brunch on Monday, courtesy of Michel Beaumont—the guy from the restaurant last night."
"I don’t like that guy. Do we have to go?" She crosses her arms over her chest like a stubborn child, and I’m getting a sense that this is her signature move.
"Yes."
Leora looks at me defiantly—her eyebrows furrow and her lips press into a thin line. "Then, what’s the story?" she asks me as I sit back on the sofa.
"Well, you already decided how we met, but we haven’t decided when."
"Six months ago, you were feeling incredibly lonely around Christmas," she says with a playful smirk. "You were scrolling through Instagram, and BAM , you stumbled upon me, and you just had to get to know me."
The vivid imagination of this girl. I don't even have an Instagram account, but I guess I'll have to create one for the sake of this story.
I look at her, and there's a smug smile on her face that wasn't there just a few hours ago. I have to admit, I like seeing her smile. It's unexpected, but it brightens her face in a way I hadn't noticed before, and I can't help but smile in return.
"Two months after that fateful DM," she continues, "you were so obsessed with me that you hopped on a plane to meet me."
I raise an eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh, is that so?" I ask, playing along.
She nods enthusiastically. "You had it all figured out and surprised me with the largest bouquet of roses, hundreds of them." She pauses and points a finger toward me. "Although, I must admit, I'm more of a tulip girl, but for the sake of the story, I'll accept the roses."
I let out a genuine laugh at her witty comment, then decide to take our fictional narrative up a notch.
"Little did I know," I begin, with a playful glint in my eye, "that you had an even bigger surprise for me."
Leora raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh really? Do tell."
"You went down on one knee and proposed to me right in the middle of the airport."
Her eyes widen in mock surprise, and she bursts into laughter.
"You're kidding, right?"
I play along, enjoying the absurdity of our invented story, "You even serenaded me —it was incredible."
She throws her head back in laughter. "You're insane! Firstly, I would never be the one proposing, and no one would even believe that. Secondly, serenading you? Come on. Thirdly, who proposes to someone they just met, for the first time, in the middle of an airport?"
I join in with her laughter, enjoying the absurdity of our made-up story. She’s right, of course—no one would ever believe that story. I wouldn’t like that either. Yet, as much as I had been against this marriage, the idea of someday proposing to someone has always been in the back of my mind. I remember the story of how my father proposed to my mother, a story I've cherished for years.
Mom had flown back to her hometown in Lebanon, to visit my grandmother. With my uncle's help, my father had flown all the way from the United States to surprise her.
Instead of just driving up to her favorite place, Harissa, my father had planned something more adventurous: he took her on the cable car. When they reached about 500 meters above sea level, he went down on one knee, making the whole cable car shake, and my mum cry out in fear. They always joked about how my mum probably agreed to marry my father because she was afraid. When she died I kept her ring; it’s a precious memento of their love that I will cherish forever, and I’ve saved it for when my time comes.
Someday, I'm meant to find my match, but in recent years, I've simply been too preoccupied to actively seek her out.
"Okay, but let’s be serious for a second." Leora’s voice snaps me back to reality. The reality where I’m married to a girl I barely know. I can’t help but think that my mom would be disappointed in me, even though I’m doing it for the sake of our name and our hotels. She had so much love in her heart and she disliked anything business related—she thought it ruined people; that when money was involved, it took away from their values and morals.
Have I turned into the type of person she despised?
The thought leaves me with a pang of guilt. But I gather myself and give Leora a more realistic story we can use. "We started talking six months ago. I happened to find you on social media and thought you were beautiful, so I ‘slid into your DM’s.’ We started talking every day—joking and sharing parts of ourselves we’ve never shared with anyone else, and in the process, we slowly fell for each other. During my business trip to New York three months ago, we finally got to meet each other. We knew then and there that we wanted to be together. When you know, you know. So I took you to a beautiful rooftop and proposed to you under the stars. You accepted, and now you’re here. We both decided not to have a big wedding, but Antoine surprised us with the small gathering."
There’s a disappointed look on her face. The playful glow that was there earlier seems to have vanished.
"Okay." Her eyes are on me, quizzical. It’s as though she felt the shift in me and wants to know why. "Lucas, are you?—"
My phone chimes, interrupting her. I glance at my phone and see the front door calling.
"Looks like our pizza's here." I quickly excuse myself and tell them to send the pizza up. As I hand over the money, I can't help but feel relieved for the interruption.
"Got the pizza," I say, setting it down on the coffee table. "Hungry?"
Leora smiles, and her large, green eyes light up as she nods. "Starving."
I go to grab a bottle of wine. "White or red?"
"White, please." I choose a Chapoutier Roussanne and bring it to the table with two glasses.
We dig into the pizza, and as we eat, the previous tension dissipates and the conversation flows easily between us. I learn that Leora dislikes seafood and black coffee—she prefers a Cappuccino—and has a peculiar obsession with a movie called Mamma Mia . When she found out I had no idea what she was talking about, her face lit up with enthusiasm as she launched into an animated description of the movie and how we have to watch it together. Listening to her talk about it with such passion was oddly endearing, and I found myself getting drawn into her excitement. To be honest, the movie sounds good.
When the conversation winds down, she turns to me, her eyes trying to hide their apprehension.
"Lucas, can I ask you something?"
"Sure"
"Did you recognise me when I approached you in the club?" Her question catches me off guard.
"No, I didn't," I reply, trying to sound casual, not wanting her to feel uncomfortable that I did, in fact, initially recognize her. I remembered her the moment I saw her. How could I forget a face like hers?
I see her shoulders slump and her gaze shift to the plate in her lap, a shadow of disappointment crossing her features. Fuck, wrong answer.
"Oh."
She doesn't say anything for a few seconds, seemingly lost in deep thought. When she looks up at me, her brows are furrowed and her spine is stiff, as if she's gathering her courage.
"Then why did you act like a complete douchebag?" Her voice is tinged with some anger, and there’s fire in her green eyes.
Me?
Douchebag?
Okay, let’s back up.
"You threw the drink at me ," I retort.
"Because you were rude!" Her voice rises slightly, and the girl who looked sad just moments ago is now replaced with a hostile one.
"Do you throw drinks at everyone who’s rude to you? Or just the guys chosen for your ‘missions’, Leora? Is that how you handle things when you don't get your way?"
"Excuse me?"
"I overheard you and your little friends. You only came up to me to complete a dare—to use me." I state matter-of-factly, my words hanging in the charged air. People have used me before, when I was younger, either for money or for a jump in their career. Then they dropped me as if I were a burning match. It’s a pattern I’ve grown accustomed to, and I won’t let it happen again.
Her surprise is evident, and I smile inwardly.
Lucas, one.
Leora, zero.
At my comment, her eyes darken, and they almost match the intensity of mine. She stands up, her teeth gritted, and her hands balled into fists.
"I wasn’t using you ?" she snaps, pointing a finger at me. "That ‘dare’ was for me to gain some confidence by talking to a man after my ex cheated on me."
Her ex cheated on her?
Suddenly, I remember the conversation I overheard about a certain John—whom I had assumed was a dickhead—and it seems like I was right. I feel my jaw tightening.
Her eyes are flaring. If looks could kill, I would have been incinerated on the spot.
I try to ease the tension so we can talk it out. "Leora, how was I supposed to know about?—"
"Save it," she interrupts, her voice cutting through the tension. "That doesn't excuse your behavior."
The room falls silent, heavy with unspoken words and at this point I don’t know exactly how to react.