Sweet Romance11 min read
Bentley Seats, Fake Dates, and One Long "Good Night"
ButterPicks11 views
I never expected a rainy Wednesday to change everything.
"I saw them," Cara said into the phone when she called. "At the mall. Your boyfriend. With Fraser's niece."
"What?" I pushed the phone away and then grabbed it again. "No. You're joking."
"I'm not. Kadence, look outside—"
"I can't, Cara. I'm already—"
I didn't finish. I had already decided to go. I told Aldo I'd meet him and buy a gift for my friend. He told me work pulled him away. I went to the mall alone.
When the sky split and rain hit like needles, I stood at the mall entrance and froze. Five meters away, a red sports car was parked. A man and a woman under a coat were kissing like they were in an evening drama.
"Of course," I whispered. "Of course."
My eyes brimmed. I didn't plan to do anything noble. I just wanted to hide from the world for a bit. A black Bentley slowed beside me. The license plate felt familiar for reasons my brain didn't want to give me at that moment. I climbed into the passenger seat without thinking.
Warm air hit me. The smell was clean, like cedar after snow. Then a voice, low and sharp, said my name like he had been the only person able to say it in the world for three years.
"Kadence Morin."
"Fraser—" I started, and the sound of my own crying caught in my throat.
"You're crying on my seat."
Silence and then, "I'm sorry, it's just—"
"You dirtied it. Use your sleeve? You'll make it worse."
My sleeve only smeared the damp. He watched like he'd seen something distasteful. I wanted to laugh and cry at once.
"I forgot you were obsessive about cleanliness," I blurted.
He looked at me. "You forgot a lot of things today."
There was a picture of the two of them laughing under the coat on the curb. The man was Aldo Bell. The woman lifting her face to him was Amelie Teixeira—from his family photos, she was clearly Fraser's niece. I didn't want to be part of a tableau anymore.
Fraser sighed like the wind had shifted. "Get out at the next corner."
"Please, Fraser. I can't go home."
"You can. You will. But not without cleaning the seat."
He handed me an envelope.
"Pay this," he said. "You ruined leather. I'll give you my assistant's number."
I stared at him. "Why—?"
"Because my mother will see your face on a date if you stay looking like that."
We arrived at a boutique. He tapped the pavement with impatience. "Out."
He threw a coat at me—his coat, heavy and expensive. "Too ugly," he said when I tried to thank him.
I had been his secretary for three years. I had learned to answer instantly whenever he called. "Yes, Fraser," came out of me even now, between sobs.
I hadn't been able to hold it together because Aldo had been the kind of boyfriend you promised forever. Three years. A shared apartment, a ring he swore he'd buy when his salary improved. I had held his hand when he drank too much. I had fallen asleep leaning on his shoulder. I had thought forever had a shape, a slow predictable curve. I had never expected it to be a sharp, sudden break.
In the boutique, he handed me a stack of invoices. They weren't for me to sign. They were for me to pay.
"You will pay when you damage things at my car?" I choked.
"Seat needs replacing. You will write a check."
I almost laughed. "You expect me to pay for a Bentley seat I ruined because my boyfriend cheated on me? Fraser, that's—"
"—a cause you created," he said. "If you can't pay, ensure the funds when we get back."
He watched me like a man watching a chessboard. I wanted to shove the receipts back into his hand. My bank balance hissed at me. Every number screamed.
"You saw them," I said. "With me—you saw him with Amelie. They were kissing."
He raised an eyebrow. "Their kissing has nothing to do with your reparations. If you want reprieve, help my mother."
It should have sounded absurd. It didn't. I tilted my head. "Help your mother with what?"
"Be my—" He glanced at the glass ceiling where sun had come out "—my girlfriend for a while. My mother will be happier. You'll keep your job. I'll drop the seat fee."
"You're asking me to be your—fake girlfriend?" I said, incredulous.
"I don't think of it as 'fake' when my mother is involved."
"How long?"
"As long as it takes her to be convinced."
I thought of the red car, the coat, the single warm hand of my boyfriend on another woman's waist. The thought that it would be me who had to put my hand in his again made bile rise up, but the alternative—paying for a seat I literally ruined by crying—was worse. I swallowed.
"Do we sign anything?" I asked.
"Only one rule. You do not nosedive into my private matters. Do not create drama."
"Deal."
So it began.
"Smile," Fraser told me the next morning when he handed me a small lunch box. "My mother wants proof that we're not awkward."
"Proof?" I blinked.
"She made it. Eat."
I opened it like a child opening a present. Porridge, pickles, a boiled egg, dumplings—things I loved. He filmed a photo of me eating and smiled in a way I'd never seen him. "Eat," he said. "You do this, I will owe you nothing."
That was one of the first soft things he did for me that wasn't his sharp, cold kindness dressed up in kindness itself. He gave me shelter, then a coat, then porridge, then a reason to play a small role.
"You don't have to do this," I told him once in the car.
He looked at the dashboard. "You didn't have to cry on my seat."
"Still."
He frowned. "You were smaller in the past."
"What?"
"When I first saw you handing out flyers, your hands were shaking. I thought you'd vanish."
"You remember that?" My heart stuttered.
"I remember the eightieth flyer you dropped and the way you blushed when someone said thank you."
It was the first complete confession he'd given me and it was soft, as if it had been kept in a box for a long time. My breath did a strange flutter—like the small, skyward beat of a bird.
At the office, things were an odd mixture of business and roleplay. By day, I was his efficient secretary. By night, I was the girl who agreed to be his partner for dinners, phone calls, and his mother's inspections.
"Kadence," his niece Amelie muttered across the lobby one afternoon, voice sharp with contempt. "You're not fooling anyone."
"You're not welcome here," I said. "This is my workplace."
She smiled like a cat. "You stole him."
"He doesn't belong to you."
"Then why are you here? Posable photo prop?"
"You bought everything with Allan's money?" I said, aiming for his heart. I meant Aldo. My temper flared.
They bristled, he bristled, I kept my head down. I had my performance to keep. The thing about pretending is that you learn the rhythm of seeming. I wore heels and laughed on cue. I agreed to sit next to Martha at dinners where she analyzed my every move.
"You are very good with him," Martha said once, spoon paused midair. "But does he smile like that for other people?"
"Only for you, Ma'am," Fraser said.
She turned to me. "Where did you grow up, Kadence? Your hands look like they worked."
"Small jobs," I said. "Flyers, delivering, part-time marketing. I learned to never be afraid of being small."
Martha's eyes softened. "You have good habits."
One afternoon, however, the small peaceful rhythm was broken when a warning came in from the company head of security.
"Kadence, don't go to the living room," Cara hissed. "There's an argument brewing and it looks bad."
I had an idea of what "bad" could be, because Amelie had been escalating. The niece wouldn't accept being second-fiddle to a secretary. She wanted the spot. She wanted her uncle's inheritance, his attention.
I stepped into the living room and stopped. A family lunch. Fraser's parents were there. Father—Forest Baxter—sat with a look like a judge. Martha beamed like a queen. Amelie was at the opposite sofa with Aldo, smiling like a woman who had won something.
"Mom," Amelie cooed. "See? He invited me."
Martha looked at Aldo. He tried to smile. "Pleasure, Aldo."
"Yes, Mrs. Sanchez," he said. He used Fraser's last name wrong—he called her Sanchez—but it made no difference.
"Kadence," Martha said affectionately. "Your hair is different today. Sit."
I sat, my knees stiff. Aldo kept glancing over like he'd been caught mid-sin. I felt the old pain rise, sharp as glass.
"So sweet," Amelie said, leaning closer to Aldo. "We were just at the mall—"
"Amelie," Fraser cut, calm like a blade. "What was it you were doing at the mall?"
The living room hummed. I could feel the temperature drop. Aldo shifted.
"I was—" Aldo started.
"Why did you hide?" Martha asked, full of curious heat.
"Because I didn't want people to know," Aldo said.
"About what?" Martha's fingers tapped the armrest.
"About..." He faltered. He looked at Amelie and then at me. "I only meant—"
"It seems you meant something else," Fraser said, voice even.
"Kadence, did you know anything about this?" Martha asked me.
"Yes. I saw him," I replied. "With Amelie."
Martha's face did something like disappointment and then concern. "Aldo, is this true?"
He opened his mouth. He tried half a denial, half a laugh, like a man caught between two doors.
"I didn't—" he said. "She came on to me. I didn't think—"
"Enough," Fraser interrupted. "Cara, Security. Show them the invoices."
Cara came with a folder. "These were in Aldo Bell's bank records," she said. "Car payments, gifts to Amelie. Plus a transfer marked 'loan'."
The room was suddenly a pond where ripples reached every corner. Amelie's face drained. Aldo's smile was gone. Forest Baxter rose and walked over. He set a file down on the coffee table and opened it where everyone could see.
"Mr. Bell," Forest said. "We did a check. There are several accounts showing that you've been taking money from a few young women. Do you have anything to say?"
"I—" Aldo's voice cracked. "I didn't—"
Forest stepped closer. "You have been embezzling funds from your employer and using them to keep an illusion. We have proof."
Amelie stared at the papers. She looked younger in that moment. "You lied?"
Aldo lunged. "She's twisting this. She—"
"Sit down," Fraser said, like a man saying the sun should set. "Carsen, take him out."
Aldo looked at Carsen Vang like a drowning man looks at a lifeline. "No—"
"Out," Carsen said, flat.
The punishment scene lasted a long time because the living room was full of people. Friends, distant relatives, and staff spilled from doorways to watch the spectacle. Cameras—real and phones—were turned like flowers toward the drama. Aldo's face moved through stages as if someone were flipping photographs of his soul: confident, startled, denial, then raw panic.
He first clung to Amelie, saying, "It wasn't like that. I loved you!" He tried to plead; he tried to reframe everything as romantic. Amelie pulled away and looked at him like he had turned into a stranger. "You used me," she finally hissed. "You used me too."
People's reactions noisily filled the room. "What a scumbag," someone muttered. "How dare he." A hand raised with a phone. Another voice said, "Post it. He needs to be shown." Others shook their heads. A ripple of whispers rolled through the crowd—accusations, pity, disgust. I watched Aldo's face as each whisper landed like a pebble. His hands shook.
He started to cry. "Please," he said. "I can explain. I didn't mean—"
"Explain what?" Forest demanded. "That you bankrupted trust? That you leveraged girls' trust for a vanity you couldn't afford?"
Fraser said nothing at first. He watched Aldo with the same thoughtful cruelty he'd once used on a spreadsheet. Then he leaned forward, soft, almost gentle. "You asked for validation," Fraser said. "You got it for a while. But validation built on theft collapses."
Amelie wept now, but not for him. "You lied to me. You told me I was unique."
"Why did you do it?" Martha asked Aldo, voice low with disappointment that cut deeper than anger.
"Because—" He tried again. "Because I needed to feel wanted."
"At whose expense?" Forest's voice was quieter and every bit as crushing.
Aldo fell apart. He begged for forgiveness, and the room's air became a mixture of scorn and moral triumph. People recorded his pleas. Some laughed. Some shook their heads. He attempted to kneel, to ask Amelie, to ask me—any woman—to forgive him, but there was no forgiveness to give. This was not private sorrow; it was public denouncement.
"Can you pay them back?" someone shouted.
"No," Aldo whimpered.
"Then you can leave and let's never hear from you again," Fraser said. "Carsen, escort him out. Security will ensure he has no access to the building."
Aldo was dragged—pleading, sputtering, humiliated. At the doorway, he turned toward the group. "You don't understand—"
"You're right," Forest said. "We understand enough."
Outside on the steps, the last part of the punishment unfolded like a bad film in true time. People recorded him being taken off the premises, posted clips onto social apps, and made commentary. His name was smeared across private chats and public feeds. The very thing he had used—image, illusion—was turned back against him.
Back inside, the aftermath hummed. Martha held my hand the way someone holds another's as if both are fragile. "You did the right thing," she said. "You didn't let a liar ruin you."
Amelie's cheeks were blotched with tears and red stripes of mascara. "I thought he loved me," she said to no one. "I thought—"
"You believed him," Fraser said quietly. "We were deceived too."
The punishment took more than public humiliation. Aldo's deception cost him his dignity, his opportunities with several families, and the social shield he wore like a coat. That afternoon, social pages lit up. His friends turned away. Creditors called. He watched people he thought were allies pull back. He had engineered a life of illusions and now saw them collapse in full view—phones flashing, whispers traveling, the public's verdict forming fast.
It was ruthless, and it was fair.
After Aldo was gone, light fell differently in the room. Fraser sat down beside me. "You stayed calm," he observed.
"Had to," I said. "You were gracious."
"Gracious?" he scoffed. "I was efficient. I wanted to hurt him where it would strike hardest."
"You hurt his image."
"People respect that which appears valuable. If his image is worthless, so are his followers."
We shared a small smile. It felt like we had together closed a book.
Weeks into the arrangement, something strange happened. The "fake" days bled into real ones. Fraser's small gestures became unscripted.
He once quietly wrapped his coat around me when a sudden gust hit. "You looked cold," he said.
Another night, I stepped into a puddle and he removed his shoe to hold an umbrella over me. "You wear the shoes," he said, eyes softened.
The day it rained and the umbrella snapped, he laughed—a rare, true laugh directed only at me.
"You're the worst," I told him.
He answered with a smile that included his eyes. "You're the only one who laughed at my spreadsheet jokes. Don't sell yourself short."
I learned more of him on quiet drives than in frantic office hours. He told me—without pomp—the story of the night he'd found me handing out flyers. He had been defeated after a business mistake. He sat on a bench and I had given him dinner and said, "Good night." That small "good night" had warmed him like sunlight.
"From that day," he told me, "I wanted to know you. When the position opened, I saw your resume."
"And then you hired the girl who gave you dinner."
"I hired the girl who didn't disappear."
There were three moments that set my heart off like a bell.
The first: When he smiled at me in the Bentley while I ate porridge—real, surprised, and private—and said, "You should always eat." The way his eyes crinkled was something I'd never seen in a boss's measured profile.
The second: The night on his rooftop where we sat on the bench under a borrowed streetlamp. He told me the flyer story slowly, and then he took my hand and said, "You were always more than a passerby." He kissed me like it was the day's only sun.
The third: The morning he told his mother he wanted to marry me. He did it in the simplest way—he placed my hand over his heart and then asked. "Kadence, will you share the rest of the nights with me?"
I cried. "Yes."
We didn't shout. We didn't stage fireworks. We sat on that rooftop and listened to the city breathe. He laughed and said, "I have always thought about the long haul. I like the idea of someone to help me keep it together."
"And I like the idea you let me keep the seat tidy," I teased.
He looked at me with a mock sternness. "You will never soil my leather again."
"Promise?" I asked.
"Promise," he said, and then—just to spite both of us—he added, "Unless the world requires it."
We married in a small ceremony in spring. Not the huge gala some expected, but a gathering with people who mattered. Martha smiled at me like she'd always known I was part of the family. Amelie appeared at the wedding in a simple dress and hugged me.
"You deserve simple devotion," she said once, eyes clear.
Aldo was nowhere in sight—good riddance.
At the reception, Fraser whispered, "You were the one who gave me food on a bench. You deserve a better forever."
"And you—" I squeezed his hand. "You deserve someone who sees you without the mask."
He kissed my knuckles. "Then we'll both keep it clean."
On our first night as husband and wife, I sat in the passenger seat of the Bentley while he started the car. He looked over and said, "You cried on that seat once."
"I did," I said.
He smiled and then took the receipt folder from the glovebox. He tore it in half and let the pieces drift like confetti into the footwell. "Now it's ours," he said.
We drove through the city. It wasn't a fairy tale with fireworks. It was better—a small, private epic, told in porridge boxes, in trampled flyers, in invoices paid and promises made.
The last line of my life before forever was the one he always said when he left for the night: "Good night."
This time, I answered first. "Good night, Fraser."
He reached over, tucked a stray hair behind my ear, and said softly, "Good night, Kadence. And keep the seat clean."
The End
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