The Wrong Date

The rain in South London didn't fall so much as it clung to the windowpanes, blurring the red double-decker buses crawling down the street below into streaks of crimson. Inside the third-floor apartment, the air smelled of burnt toast, expensive dry shampoo, and absolute panic.

"Celine, please. I am begging you on my hands and knees. If I have to go on this date, I will literally throw myself into the Thames."

Celine didn't look up from her laptop. She was curled into the corner of the faded velvet sofa, a half-empty mug of tea resting near her knee, her fingers flying over her keyboard as she tried to finish her freelance edits before the deadline.

"You say that about every blind date your mother arranges for you, Kylie," Celine said, her voice dry, though a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "Last month you said you'd rather drink bathwater than go out with that guy who brought his own Tupperware to a steakhouse."

"This is different!" Kylie flopped onto the sofa next to her, sending a jolt through the cushions that nearly spilled Celine's tea. Kylie clutched her hands together under her chin, her big brown eyes wide with dramatic desperation.

"My mum set this up through one of her high-society connections. Some family friend's nephew. He's bound to be eighty years old, smells like mothballs and polo horses, and expects me to talk about the stock market for three hours.

"I can't do it. I have tickets to the theatre tonight with Dan!" Lied Celine.

"Dan? The bartender with the stick-and-poke tattoo? Celine raised an eyebrow, finally turning to look at her roommate. "You're ditching a high-society blind date for a guy who thinks a romantic dinner is sharing a bag of chips on the Overground?"

"Dan is raw! He's real! Kylie groaned, throwing her head back against the cushions. "Look, I don't care about the guy's money. I just need you to go in my place. Just step in, sit down, be a total disaster, so he never wants to see me again, and then leave. Ten minutes max!"

"Absolutely not," Celine said smoothly, returning her eyes to her screen. "Impersonating you sounds like a legal liability. Plus, I'm in my sweatpants. I have zero intention of putting on real clothes tonight."

"Celine. Best friend. Light of my life. The apple of my eye" Kylie leaned closer, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "What if I made it worth your while?"

"You can't afford my dignity, Ky."

Ping.

Celine's phone vibrated on the coffee table. She didn't reach for it immediately, but Kylie gestured frantically toward the screen.

"Check it. Go on. Check your banking app."

Celine sighed, picking up the phone and tapping the screen to unlock it. A notification banner from her banking app hovered at the top of her lock screen. She tapped it, her thumb print verifying, and the main account balance popped up.

A fresh transaction was glowing at the top of the history in bold black numbers:

+ £2,000.00 - Transfer from Kylie V.

Celine froze. She looked at the screen. She looked at Kylie. Then she looked back at the screen, double-checking the zeroes just to make sure her eyes weren't playing tricks on her in the dim London afternoon light.

"Kylie," Celine said slowly, her voice dropping an octave. "Where did you even get two grand?"

"Saved it from my last bonus. And it's yours. Yours to keep, no strings attached, the second you put a coat on and walk out that door." Kylie leaned in, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

Celine stared at the money. Two thousand pounds. That was two months of her share of the rent. That was a weekend trip to Italy. That was her entire savings safety net replenished in a single second.

She turned her head slowly to face Kylie. Celine let out a low, theatrical gasp, blinking knowingly at her best friend; her lips curling into a wicked, greedy grin.

"Ah..." Celine purred, her tone dripping with dramatic realization. "So... Is this a bribe?"

Kylie burst out laughing, clapping her hands together. "It is an ethical compensation package for services rendered!"

"Okay, I'm going!" Celine announced cheerfully, snapping her laptop shut with a sudden, decisive click and setting it onto the table. "For two grand, I will not only mess up this date, but I will also make him think your entire lineage is cursed."

"Yes! That's my girl! Kylie squealed, leaping off the couch and grabbing Celine by the wrists, pulling her up out of her blanket nest. "Come on, we have forty-five minutes to turn you into an upper-class nightmare."

For the next half-hour, Kylie's bedroom became a war room of silk, perfume, and cosmetics. If Celine was going to play the role of an unbearable high-society disaster, Kylie insisted she had to look at the part first.

"We need effortless wealth, but with a touch of unhinged," Kylie muttered, tearing through her closet. She pulled out a sleek, emerald-green slip dress made of heavy silk that hugged Celine's frame in all the right places.

"Wait, isn't this dress way too nice for a date I'm supposed to sabotage?" Celine asked, wincing slightly as Kylie yanked a brush through her dark waves.

"No, that's the genius of it," Kylie said, applying a bold shade of crimson lipstick to Celine's mouth with practiced precision. "You look like a million bucks when you walk in. Stunning. Classy. And then the second you open your mouth; you act so utterly bizarre and narcissistic that he gets whiplash. The contrast is what makes it unforgettable-in a terrible way!"

Celine looked in the full-length mirror. The emerald dress draped down her curves, contrasting sharply with her pale skin and dark hair. Kylie handed her a pair of gold hoop earrings and a tailored black blazer to drape over her shoulders against the London drizzle.

"Phone's buzzing," Celine noted, checking her screen. "My Uber is three minutes away."

"Right, put your shoes on!" Kylie handed over a pair of black strappy heels.

Celine slipped into the heels, suddenly feeling six inches taller and far more intimidating than she felt ten minutes ago in her baggy grey tracksuit. She grabbed her small leather clutch, double-checking that her phone was fully charged.

"Okay, I'm stepping out," Celine said, walking toward the front door of the flat while carefully navigating the heels on the hardwood floor.

Kylie followed her to the threshold, leaning against the doorframe with a triumphant grin, her fingers already holding her own phone.

"I'm texting you all the details right now!" Kylie called out as Celine started down the stairwell. "The table number, the name on the reservation, everything! Just check your text when you get into the car!"

"Got it!" Celine called back over her shoulder, her voice echoing in the stairwell. "Prepare to receive a text from a very offended rich guy by eight o'clock!"

The black cab rolled smoothly through the slick, rain-glistened streets of Mayfair. Outside the window, London was a blurred canvas of neon signs, glowing streetlights, and couples huddled under oversized umbrellas. Inside, Celine sat back against the leather seat, smooth silk brushing against her legs, staring at the lit screen of her phone.

A text from Kylie popped up:

Kylie: Reservation is under 'Brown'. Private Dining Room 4 at Le Saint-Martin. Remember: act completely self-absorbed, talk about yourself constantly, order the most expensive thing on the menu, and make sure he thinks I'm a total nightmare. Good luck! xx

Celine chuckled to herself, locking the screen and slipping the phone into her clutch. Two thousand pounds sitting safely in her bank account made the prospect of acting like a total eccentric, surprisingly entertaining. Whatever excuse Kylie had cooked up to avoid her mother's relentless matchmaking-whether it was a fake double-booking or just pure rebellion-didn't matter now. Celine had a job to do, and she intended to earn every single penny.

The cab pulled up to the kerb outside Le Saint-Martin.

The restaurant was the kind of place that didn't bother putting a menu in the front window. A sleek black awning stretched over the pavement, flanked by two towering iron torches flickering with gas flame. A doorman dressed in a crisp wool overcoat stepped forward immediately, opening the cab door and holding a golf umbrella over Celine's head as she stepped onto the wet pavement.

"Good evening, madam," the doorman said with practiced, quiet reverence.

"Thank you," Celine murmured, pulling her blazer tighter around her shoulders as she walked up the broad stone steps.

The moment she crossed the threshold, the noise of London's evening traffic vanished, replaced by the soft hum of jazz, the delicate clinking of crystal glasses, and the faint, rich scent of truffle and aged oak. Soft lighting bathed the dining room in a warm, amber glow. Velvet booths were filled with men in custom-tailored suits and women wearing subtle, devastatingly expensive jewelry.

Celine took a subtle breath, squaring her shoulders. She might be living on instant coffee and freelance paychecks, but in this green dress, she looked like she owned half the street.

A tall, polished waiter in a tailored tuxedo approached her, his posture straight as a pin, holding a leather-bound clipboard.

"Good evening, madam. Welcome to Le Saint-Martin," the waiter said, his voice smooth and welcoming. "Do you have a reservation?"

Celine offered a small, cool smile. "Yes. Room four."

The waiter lowered his clipboard slightly, his eyes flashing with a sudden, heightened level of respect. Room four was clearly reserved for a specific tier of guest.

"Ah, of course. Right this way, madam. Please come with me."

He turned, leading her away from the main dining floor and down a wide, carpeted corridor lined with fine art and subtle recessed lighting. The air grew quieter the further they walked, wrapping the private dining wing in an atmosphere of exclusive, heavy quiet.

They paused outside a double door made of dark walnut with a discreet brass number 4 mounted at eye level.

"Enjoy your evening, madam," the waiter bowed his head slightly, pushing the door open for her just wide enough to enter, before stepping back into the hall.

Celine took a steady breath, stepped past the heavy door, and walked into the private room.

The space was stunning. A floor-to-ceiling glass window on the far wall offered a sweeping view of a rain-soaked private courtyard illuminated by soft garden lights. A long, dark mahogany table sat in the center, set for two with silver cutlery and crystal stemware.

And seated at the head of the table was her date.

Celine stopped in her tracks, her heart skipping a sudden, traitorous beat.

She had expected an arrogant, stiff-looking man in his late fifties with thinning hair and a gold watch he wanted everyone to notice. Instead, sitting right there, swirling a glass of deep red wine between long, elegant fingers, was a man who looked like he had been sculpted out of marble and dark shadow.

He was only twenty-seven years old, but he carried the powerful, unmistakable presence of a man who ran an empire.

He wore a dark, custom-tailored suit that fitted broad shoulders, hair styled with sharp precision, and a razor-clean jawline. The light caught his sharp cheekbones and eyes so piercingly dark they locked onto her the second she crossed the threshold.

My oh my, Celine thought to herself, her breath briefly catching in her throat as she stared at him. This man is so beautiful. Why on earth is Kylie blowing this off?

For a split second, the thought of throwing the plan out the window crossed her mind. But then she remembered the two grand sitting in her account, squared her jaw, and masked her surprise with a broad, dazzling smile.

She sauntered toward the table, the heels of her shoes clicking softly against the hardwood, her eyes locked directly onto his.

"Hey, handsome date," Celine said smoothly, pulling out the plush velvet chair opposite him and sliding into it with effortless grace. She leaned her chin on her hand, beaming at him. "I hope I'm on time."

The man didn't flinch. He slowly lowered his glass of wine to the white tablecloth, his dark eyes trailing over her-from the crimson's lipstick, down the length of the emerald dress, and back up to her face. A small, dry chuckle escaped his lips, carrying a tone of cold, amused superiority.

He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his broad chest, looking at her like a man thoroughly unamused by a predictable game.

"So," he said, his voice a deep, gravelly baritone that echoed softly in the quiet room. "What can I do for you? Are you one of those girls who are obsessed with me?"

Celine's playful smile faltered for just a fraction of a second as the sheer audacity of his words hung in the air. She blinked, resting her hands on the table, and let out a light, airy laugh.

"Ah," Celine said, tilting her head with a look of pure, sweet amusement. "Hello. I'm your blind date, Celine."

Jeremy's dark brow lifted sharply. The amused, condescending smirk on his lips vanished, replaced by a look of sheer, cold confusion. He tilted his head, his dark eyes tracking every detail of her face as if checking to see if she had lost her mind.

"My... what?" Jeremy asked, his deep baritone dropping an octave into a hard, incredulous rumble.