Chapter 17 Fake kiss
The glass walls of the Wentworth International office tower gleamed beneath the Los Angeles sun, their sleek lines and angles reflecting the cool, intimidating dominance of the empire Jaxon controlled.
But inside the top floor—the CEO’s domain—Jaxon sat behind his polished desk, his fingers unmoving on the keyboard before him. The screen glowed with spreadsheets, emails, merger proposals. Yet none of it made it past the fog clouding his thoughts.
He hadn’t been able to shake the image.
Not from last night.
Not from her.
Not from the way Elena had leaned in and kissed him—but didn’t.
Her thumb.
She had used her thumb.
A damn thumb between their lips. A trick—brilliant, calculated, and flawlessly executed. The photographers hadn’t noticed. The world would never know. But he knew.
And that was what made it worse.
Jaxon ran a hand through his neatly styled hair, messing it up slightly, a rare thing for him. That small move—Elena’s deception—played on repeat in his head. Not because it embarrassed him. Not because he hadn’t seen it coming.
But because it got to him.
The control.
The deflection.
The game.
She had outmaneuvered him.
And for someone like Jaxon Wentworth, who prided himself on being five steps ahead of everyone in the room—especially in matters of business and emotion—that bothered him more than it should have.
He wasn’t even angry.
He was intrigued.
Which was worse.
His jaw clenched as he leaned back in the chair, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the Los Angeles skyline. His reflection stared back at him, tired, contemplative.
It wasn’t just about the kiss. It was about Elena herself.
Every time he thought he understood her—she shifted. Every time he thought he had the upper hand—she flipped the narrative. She wasn’t just playing along for the contract; she was playing it on her own terms.
That was something he hadn’t calculated for.
And the worst part?
He respected it.
A knock on the office door snapped him out of his thoughts.
Damon stepped in, a tablet in one hand and his usual unreadable expression on his face. “Sir, the partners are waiting in the conference room. The meeting’s starting now.”
Jaxon blinked once. Then twice.
Right. The meeting.
He stood up slowly, smoothing his suit jacket. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
Damon hesitated, then added, “And… the press wants a statement on the photoshoot. Just a reminder.”
Of course they did.
Jaxon nodded without answering, grabbing his phone and sliding it into his pocket. As he followed Damon toward the conference room, one thought echoed in his mind like a steady drumbeat:
She outplayed me.
But the game wasn’t over.
_____________________________
The morning sunlight slipped through the tall windows of Elena’s apartment, casting gold patterns across the floor. The faint hum of Brielle’s hairdryer buzzed in the background as Elena stood by the kitchen island, sipping a cup of oat milk latte and scrolling through early emails from a client in Paris.
She hadn’t even clicked open the second one before Brielle’s voice broke through the air like a mischievous melody.
“So…”
Elena didn’t look up.
She could already hear the grin in Brielle’s voice.
“Are you going to pretend like you didn’t kiss Jaxon Wentworth in front of half of Los Angeles yesterday?”
Elena raised her brow, still scrolling. “Oh? Is that what they’re calling it now?”
“Girl,” Brielle twirled into the kitchen, robe fluttering behind her dramatically like she was walking a runway. “It was everywhere. Like, everywhere. Instagram, Twitter, blogs, people in Ghana probably saw it by now.”
Elena laughed softly and took another sip of her coffee. “They saw what I wanted them to see.”
Brielle narrowed her eyes. “Wait… what does that mean?”
Elena held up her thumb and placed it gently against her lips. “It means,” she said smugly, “that what you thought was a kiss... wasn’t.”
Brielle blinked.
“You’re joking.”
“Nope.”
“Wait, wait—you put your thumb between your lips?!”
Elena nodded.
“Girl!” Brielle cackled. “You’re a damn genius. That was so slick, even I didn’t notice. And I was standing like ten feet away!”
Elena smirked, finally putting down her mug. “Photographers got their photo. The internet got their moment. But no, I did not kiss Jaxon.”
“Not really,” Brielle teased with a wink. “But you wanted to.”
Elena rolled her eyes, a blush barely touching her cheeks. “Shut up.”
“I’m just saying!” Brielle giggled. “If I were faking a relationship with that man, the line between pretend and reality would get blurry fast.”
“I know how to keep my boundaries,” Elena said firmly, but even she wasn’t sure who she was convincing.
Brielle backed away toward the hallway, still grinning. “Alright, boss lady. I’m off to the design floor. I’ve got to finish those fittings for the Barcelona order.”
“Good luck.”
As the door clicked shut behind Brielle, silence returned to the apartment.
Elena padded to her work table, pulled on her sketch apron, and grabbed her pencil. A partially-finished evening gown lay spread across the mannequin before her—midnight blue silk, cut on the bias, with intricate hand-sewn crystal embroidery waiting to be completed along the waistline.
She leaned in, adjusting a fold in the fabric.
But her mind drifted.
Back to the lights.
The camera shutters.
The warmth of Jaxon’s body against hers.
His hand at her waist.
His breath on her cheek.
His eyes—dark and unreadable—as she lifted her hand and blocked the kiss.
He hadn’t expected it.
And for a moment… neither had she.
The moment had been so tense, so charged, it had shaken something loose inside her—something dangerous and unnamed.
She tried to shake it off.
Tried to focus on the crystals.
One. Two. Three beads.
But it was no use.
The memory played again, uninvited and vivid.
And this time, it left behind a question she wasn’t ready to answer:
Why did a fake kiss feel that real?
_____________________
The quiet rhythm of her atelier wrapped around Elena like a comforting blanket—the soft buzz of her industrial sewing machine, the muted swish of fabric, and the faint notes of a lo-fi jazz playlist humming from her speaker.
She had finally found her flow.
After hours of beadwork and hand-stitching, the midnight-blue gown was coming to life. She paused to admire it—graceful, luminous, ready for the runway.
This… this was where she belonged.
Not in front of cameras pretending to be in love.
Not on gossip blogs.
Here. In silk and satin and sketches and solitude.
She reached for the next piece of lace trim, lost in her thoughts, when she heard a soft knock at the studio door.
Her brows pulled together.
She wasn’t expecting anyone.
Wiping her hands on a clean cloth, Elena padded across the open loft and pulled the door open slightly.
And froze.
Standing on the other side, in a sharp navy suit and a look far too self-satisfied, was Caleb Donovan.
“Surprise,” he said with a crooked smile.
Elena stared. “What are you doing here?”
“I was in the neighborhood.” He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, his cologne trailing behind him like an afterthought. “Thought I’d drop in on my favorite designer.”
Her voice cooled. “You shouldn’t just show up like this.”
“Why not?” He gestured around. “You’re not with your fiancé, are you?”
Elena shut the door firmly behind him. “What do you want, Caleb?”
“I wanted to see how you were doing.” He wandered around the atelier, eyes scanning her sketches, her fabric boards. “After all the… tension at the Expo. I figured you might want some real conversation.”
She crossed her arms. “The Expo was work. I handled it.”
He turned to her slowly. “You handled it well. Too well. But I saw it, Elena. That kiss? It wasn’t real.”
She tensed. “You have no right to talk about that.”
Caleb stepped closer. “I just think it’s a shame… wasting all that emotion on someone who’s just playing pretend.”
“And what, you think you’re the real thing?” Her eyes flashed.
He smirked, stepping even closer. “I think I know how to treat a woman who deserves more than staged photos and PR games.”
Elena moved to step away—but he caught her hand gently.
“Elena—”
His voice dropped, too soft, too familiar.
“You know I’ve always admired you. From the start. You don’t need to play his game anymore. Not with me.”
And then, before she could pull away, before she could even react—
Caleb leaned in.
His hand still brushed hers. His face tilted forward, closing the space between them.
She didn’t move.
Not yet.
But something inside her snapped awake.
Caleb tilted his head slightly, eyes half-lidded, breath brushing against Elena’s cheek.
She stiffened. Her mind screamed no but her limbs were frozen—caught between shock, anger, and disgust.
His lips were inches away.
Then—
“Get your damn hands off her.”
The voice cut through the studio like a blade.
Sharp. Commanding. Cold.
Caleb jerked back.
Elena’s eyes widened as Jaxon stormed into the atelier, jaw clenched, fists already balled. Damon stood just outside the door, frozen in alarm.
“Elena, are you okay?” Jaxon’s eyes didn’t leave Caleb for a second.
She nodded, breathing hard, but couldn’t form words.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Jaxon snarled, stepping between them.
Caleb’s expression flickered. He straightened his collar, feigning calm. “We were having a conversation.”
“You call that a conversation?” Jaxon snapped, fists trembling at his sides. “You came here uninvited and tried to kiss her.”
“I don’t see how that’s your business—unless you suddenly care more than you’re letting on,” Caleb said, voice like venom.
That was the wrong thing to say.
Jaxon lunged forward, shoving Caleb hard.
Caleb stumbled back into a rack of dresses, knocking it slightly off balance. “Really?” he hissed, regaining his footing. “You want to fight me in front of her? Prove what—your fake fiancé ego?”
“I’ll prove that if you touch her again, I’ll make sure you never walk into another room she’s in.”
“Guys, stop—” Elena finally found her voice, stepping forward.
But the air was charged, heavy with unspoken rage.
Caleb adjusted his cufflinks with false composure and sneered. “Enjoy the illusion while it lasts, Wentworth.” He looked at Elena one last time, his eyes dark. “I’ll see you around.”
And just like that, he walked out.
Leaving silence and tension behind him.
Jaxon didn’t move. Neither did Elena.
The moment hung there—unfinished.
The door clicked shut behind Caleb, but the storm inside the room didn’t clear.
Jaxon stood rigid, eyes still fixed where Caleb had exited, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.
Elena swallowed hard, then stepped forward.
“What... what are you doing here, Jaxon?” Her voice was quiet, confused—but there was an edge to it.
He turned slowly to face her, expression unreadable. “I should be asking you that.”
“What?”
“I came to pick you up. Food tasting, remember?” His tone was sharp, wounded pride barely veiled. “But clearly, I walked into something I wasn’t supposed to see.”
“Jaxon,” she said, blinking fast, “you think I wanted that?”
He gave a bitter chuckle. “I don’t know what to think anymore, Elena. Maybe it wasn’t unwanted. You didn’t exactly push him away fast enough.”
Her jaw clenched. “You have no right—”
“I have every right. We’re supposed to be engaged. Even if it’s just for show, I didn't think you'd let him come near you like that.”
“I didn’t let anything happen,” she snapped. “He showed up uninvited. I was handling it.”
Jaxon looked at her for a long beat. Then, without another word, he turned and walked out.
She stood there, stunned for a second—then grabbed her phone, her bag, and followed him out into the glaring sunlight.
His car was parked at the curb, Damon in the driver’s seat, pretending not to notice the chaos simmering behind him. Jaxon stood by the door, jaw tight, sunglasses on, arms crossed.
Without a word, Elena climbed into the backseat beside him.
The car door clicked shut behind Elena, but the silence inside the vehicle was louder than the traffic outside.
Jaxon didn’t speak. His gaze remained fixed out the window, jaw set in a tight line. His hands rested on his lap, fingers curled inward, knuckles pale with restraint.
Elena shifted in her seat, folding her arms as she looked out the opposite window. Her reflection in the glass looked just as conflicted as she felt.
Damon glanced at them briefly through the rearview mirror but knew better than to break the silence.
The drive stretched on—block after block of quiet tension, the hum of the engine the only soundtrack to their fractured moment. Neither reached for the other. Neither apologized. Words sat between them like a barrier no one dared cross.
Elena’s phone buzzed quietly in her purse, but she ignored it.
Jaxon leaned his head against the seat, finally letting out a quiet breath. Not quite a sigh. Not quite relief. Just the sound of someone tired—of games, of expectations, of emotions he couldn’t name.
The car pulled up in front of Elena’s apartment.
She opened the door but paused, her hand resting on it as if she wanted to say something. But whatever words she might’ve had caught in her throat.
“Thanks for the ride,” she said, barely above a whisper.
Jaxon didn’t reply. He didn’t even look at her.
She stepped out.
The door shut behind her.
The car drove off.
And the day, heavy and unspoken, came to a close.
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