In Love With My Bully-Chapter 114: Playful Suspicion

Random? Chay blinked.

"I want to help her, Queen," Drake said quickly, sitting up straighter, as though trying to stretch his spine.

"I’m not saying you shouldn’t," Queen replied, still smiling. "I’m just saying if any other women who aren’t my cousin are asking for your help, maybe I’ll have to slash some tires."

"Jealous?" Drake asked, raising a single eyebrow with playful suspicion.

"Very," Queen said without missing a beat. She flashed him a flirtatious grin and slid into the seat beside him.

She leaned slightly toward him. Drake glanced at her and then at Chay.

Chay watched the exchange. Every sugary smile, every lingering look, every casual graze of Queen’s hand over Drake’s arm and her stomach turned, slow and painful. Everyone knew Queen could be controlling. That was just part of her allure: beautiful, brilliant, slightly terrifying.

But watching her with Drake was a different flavor of heartbreak.

He didn’t even notice it, didn’t see the way Queen puppeteered the air around him, how he leaned when she leaned, how he laughed a second too late like he was waiting for her cue. He was too smitten to care, too dazzled by her to realize he was slowly folding himself into the shape she preferred.

"I’ll be heading out," Chay said abruptly, standing a little too fast and knocking the edge of the table with her hip. "I have some work to catch up on."

Queen looked up, utterly unbothered. "You look great, Chay. Miss Independent looks good on you."

Chay smiled tightly. "Thanks."

She leaned in and hugged Queen affectionately. Then she gave Drake a final glance and walked out of the café with her head high and her heart in her throat.

Behind her, the couple continued talking, lost in their own rhythm. And outside, the sun shone far too brightly for how cloudy her insides felt.

*****

Guy pulled up in front of Chay’s apartment fifteen minutes later than he promised. He killed the engine and exhaled, mentally rehearsing his apology for being late. Chay was... different. Predictable in the best way. Punctual to the second, obsessive about tidiness, and able to spot a crooked picture frame from across a room like some kind of domestic sniper. But none of that made her boring. In fact, the more he worked with her, the more he realized she was extraordinary.

She had this quiet intensity, the kind that snuck up on you like the scent of rain before a storm. There was a light in her, he was sure of it, but it had been buried under layers of self-doubt and perfectionism. Lately, though, it had started shining through. He wasn’t saying he had a crush, he was just deeply, professionally fascinated. With her face. And voice. And personality.

He walked to the door and knocked, running a quick hand through his hair. He heard the faint sound of heels clicking. She’s already ready, of course. The woman probably slept in her clothes just to be punctual.

The door opened, and whatever breath he had left in his lungs took one look at her and packed its things.

Standing there, framed by the glow of her hallway light, was Chay. It was as if someone had dipped her in velvet, lit her with moonlight, and whispered to her wardrobe, "Make the man suffer." She was wearing a black dress. It clung like a lover, dipped dangerously low in front, and slit scandalously high on one leg, exposing smooth, toned skin that looked like it had been photoshopped in real life. Her shoulders were bare. Her hair was up in soft waves, her earrings sparkled, and her lips were painted the color of temptation.

"Hi," she said casually, one eyebrow raised. "You’re late."

Guy blinked. Words failed him. Language failed him. The English dictionary momentarily exited the chat.

She smirked. "You’re gawking."

"I...okay, yeah," he admitted, holding up his hands like he was being arrested. "Fair. But in my defense, no one warned me you’d look like this. There should’ve been a safety warning."

She laughed, and the sound was unfairly melodic. "Is it too much?" she asked, suddenly uncertain, glancing down at herself. Her hands smoothed the fabric over her hips, her wide eyes searching his face. "Be honest."

"Uh... what?" Guy blinked and snapped his eyes back up to her face, caught like a deer in the headlights. He realized he’d been staring again.

Chay arched a perfectly sculpted brow. "The dress... is it too much?" she asked again, uncertain.

"It’s..." he swallowed, because his throat suddenly had the consistency of a desert, "it’s perfect. Just one thing..."

Before she could ask, he reached into his suit pocket, pulled out a pristine white handkerchief, and stepped toward her. "May I?"

Her eyes widened slightly. She nodded, her breath catching just a little.

With the care of a man disarming a bomb, he dabbed gently at the corners of her eyes, then her lips. "There," he said softly, "you’re a very beautiful woman, Chay. You don’t have to try so hard. You just are."

Chay stepped back lightly as if his words had touched a place in her that wasn’t ready to be seen. Compliments always made her feel like she was on stage in a play she hadn’t auditioned for. She wasn’t used to feedback about how she looked. And certainly not from a man like Guy.

"Well," she said, brushing her hands down the front of her dress to focus herself, "you did say I have to dress to impress all the time, and I thought the occasion needed a bit more... flair."

Guy chuckled, his gaze sweeping down her figure with a low whistle. "Not your face. That’s already doing divine work. I just didn’t know you had such a banging body. I mean, really, where have you been hiding it? Under self-doubt?"

Chay laughed, awkward but genuine, and actually snorted, then immediately slapped her hand over her mouth, horrified. "Oh no. I snorted."