BLURB

She overheard everything.
A fake pregnancy. A setup. A trap.
Kyra should’ve stayed out of it.
Instead, she stood up…
And stepped into a lie that’s twenty years too close.

➤ BABY TRAPS & BAD DECISIONS
7:38 PM — The Cloister Café, Beacon Hill

The sharp clatter of a dropped fork jolted me back to reality.

I flinched, abruptly pulled into the bustling rhythm of the café—the quiet hiss of the espresso machine, the soft strumming of indie guitar flowing from the speakers, and the enticing aroma of toasted cinnamon bread wafting through the air like an irresistible lure.

Cynic Kyra: Oh no. You're hallucinating and emotionally compromised. Fantastic.

I needed to get out there ASAP.

I bent over, hastily shoving my laptop into the bag when Blondie's voice sliced through my focus.
She wasn’t addressing him, though—her attention was fixed on a conversation with someone over her phone.

Her words were clipped, conspiratorial, as her eyes darted toward Kade: "The pharmacy just confirmed the delivery of the fake positive test. Once he sees the ‘results,’ he’ll panic. Guilt’s a hell of a motivator."

My hands stilled mid-zip, and so did my reasoning.

Her voice, sharper now: "He'll feel guilty enough to stick around. He's Sterling rich. I'm not missing this shot."

Cynic Kyra: Wait. Did she just say... FAKE PREGNANCY test?

My eyes flicked to Kade.

His face betrayed nothing but his expression was a masterpiece of bored detachment.

Impressive for anyone else but glaringly transparent to me.
I’d studied him too long to miss the cracks:
Flexed knuckles.
Twitching temple.
Rhythmic tapping of fingers against his glass.

He had no idea what was coming.

I should've minded my business. This was his train wreck to deal with, not mine. Let him walk right into that disaster by himself.

But I couldn’t.
Cruel wasn’t in my repertoire—no matter how much sense it might make for self-preservation.

Despite every instinct that screamed for me to stay quiet, my body moved first, before my brain could veto it.

Cynic Kyra: This is precisely how bad decisions happen—carried out by emotionally stunted math geeks with weak boundaries.

I stood.
Straightened my pencil skirt.
Smoothed out wrinkles on my blouse like armor for battle.
Then drew in a breath too sharp and too deep, as if gearing up to walk straight into an inferno.

I was a fifth-degree black belt.
Not a spineless coward.
Not a girl who froze in the face of chaos.

At least... that was what I told myself.

✦✦✦

➤ FAKE FIANCÉE MODE: ACTIVATED 
7:42 PM — The Cloister Café, Beacon Hill

I strode to their table with the kind of confidence that made each step feel like a declaration.

To hell with hesitation and consequences.

I stopped beside him.
Dropped a hand on his shoulder.
And said the five words I had vowed never to say to Kade Sterling in this lifetime—or any other: 

"Babe, sorry I'm late."

The blonde blinked as though I’d smacked her with something pretentious, like a gluten-free croissant.

Kade turned his head slowly. His gaze felt like the pull of a lit match over dry kindling. Slow and precise.

No spark of recognition; no surprised utterance of my name.
But that glint in his gaze—that wasn’t déjà vu. That was history stirring awake.

"There you are," he said, lips curling into a smirk that probably launched a thousand restraining orders.
"Thought you'd ghosted me again. You know how fragile my ego is."

The blonde bristled, her voice cutting like glass. “You’re his girlfriend?”

“Fiancée,” I corrected sweetly, with just enough edge to turn her irritation into a sputter. “But we’re super chill about labels.”

Her face scrunched as though she’d bitten into a lemon.
"Oh please. I know his type. You're just some..." she gestured vaguely at my attire, "...struggling intern he's slumming with for kicks. Bet you don't even know his middle name."

Oh, I do. I know far more than anyone should—but he didn’t need to learn that right now.

Kade tilted his head, studying me like I was a puzzle he'd misplaced years ago.

"No, I definitely couldn't do better," he mused thoughtfully, his tone an artful blend of dry humor and admiration. "I mean... look at her. Way out of my league. Honestly makes me wonder if she's dating me out of pity. Isn't that right, darling?"

With ease—unnervingly natural—his fingers intertwined with mine. The touch sent an electric tremor up my arm, startling yet achingly familiar, like lightning tracing a path it has walked before.

Lavender filled my senses: wildflowers crushed in a bruised fist. Cornflower petals, crumpled but offered up like treasure.
I could still feel them—soft, fragrant, twenty years gone.

My pulse stammered against the weight of reawakened memories.
My heart remembered what my brain kept trying to bury.

Cynic Kyra: Don’t melt now. Don’t even think about it.

But it was already too late.

My hand found his cheek before I could think better of it; fingertips brushing his stubble.
"Never,” I murmured under my breath—a truth wrapped in soft defiance. “You’re perfect... for me."

For a fleeting beat, time slowed as light danced in his eyes with the kind of depth that could pull you under without warning.

"Honestly, I might start faking emergencies just to see you show up again," Kade teased, his voice sliding easily into charm's most disarming tone.

"You don't have to fake anything," I replied, deflecting the moment by flicking away invisible crumbs from his collar like a distraction specialist. "You already draw more attention than a fire drill during finals week."

His grin widened mischievously. "Yeah, but only you bring the heat."

“Keep talking like that,” I countered dryly, “and I might have to charge rent for all the space your ego occupies.”

His voice dropped an octave—a little quieter, a little sharper—"You think I’d survive without you? I haven’t had a decent opinion since you walked in the room.”

“Tragic,” I said with mock gravity, “You should get that checked.”

“I did,” he shot back seamlessly. “Diagnosis said I’m lovesick. Terminal case.”

I huffed a laugh and turned to the blonde with a slight shrug as if to say, ‘this is just who we are.’ “We’re like this all the time.”

“Disgustingly in sync,” Kade added with exaggerated pride.

"Wildly codependent."

"Unapologetically obsessed."

“Therapy pending.” It was my last volley before his grin softened at the edges.

The mischief simmered down just enough for something deeper—something quiet but unshakably steady—to settle beneath the surface.

"Still the best part of my day," he murmured sincerely.

That shut me up for a second. The uncomfortable silence sneaking up didn’t seem so bad after all.

Blondie's nostrils flared like a bull.
"Ugh! You're both repulsive. Enjoy your… tragic love story!” Her parting words felt sharp and bitter as kale.

She grabbed her purse with such force that her $15 kombucha went tumbling to the floor, splattering across the tiles.
“And for the record? His family would never approve of you,” she said, turning on her heel.

Kade’s smile sharpened, colder than winter frost.
“Lucky for me, I don’t need their approval to recognize quality when I see it.”

Her heels cracked against the floor like gunfire as she stormed out, leaving silence behind—weighty and electric.

✦✦✦

➤ EYES THAT RING BELLES
7:44 PM — The Cloister Café, Beacon Hill

I stared at the mess where her kombucha bled across the floor like citrus-colored revenge as if it had taken her side in the argument.

Kade exhaled long and slow before leaning back in his seat. His whistle broke the stillness.
“Well... subtlety’s clearly her forte.”

I couldn't help but smirk. “She handled it with grace and dignity.”

He raised a brow and slid me a glance.
“Remind me to stage-fake-date you every time I want to break up with someone dramatically.”

"You couldn't afford me," I said, brushing a non-existent speck off my sleeve.

"Not even with the yacht I don't have yet?"

“Maybe if you throw in unlimited coffee and immunity from emotional damage.”

His lips twitched into a lopsided grin.
“Tempting... You do make emotional damage look good.”

Kade leaned back further, eyes gleaming with mischief. “That—” he nodded toward the door “—was the most entertaining thing I’ve done all month.”

Sliding into the chair across from him, my pulse still buzzing like a live wire, I blurted out, “She was about to trap you—with a fake pregnancy test. I overheard her.”

The amusement evaporated from his face. His smirk slipped into something darker. “You’re serious?”

“Said she’d guilt-trip you into staying.”

The soft whistle he let out might have sounded impressed if it weren't so hollow.
"Wow. So, you decided to rescue me? Like some sort of knight in..." his gaze flicked downward appreciatively." ...a very tight pencil skirt?"

I shrugged casually. “Would’ve brought the cape, but it clashed with the shoes.”

His grin returned, sharp and teasing. “A shame, really. I was starting to believe you moonlight as a hero in heels.”

"I randomly perform acts of kindness for strangers. Rescuing idiots from gold-diggers just happened to be today's flavor."

“So it’s not because I’m special?” he shot back, that wolfish gleam never wavering.

"Special?” I rolled my eyes. “I've seen street magicians with more mystery."

His voice dipped lower, rough around the edges now. “And here I thought I finally had my own personal superhero—only to find out I was just part of her... community outreach program. Crushing.”

“You’ll survive.”

"Will I?" His gaze lingered—a little too long—tracing my face like he was reading braille.

Then, with unsettling calm: “Have we met before?”

There was something deeper in his tone.
Not idle curiosity.
It was awareness, rising like heat from embers.

I glanced away before that stare could get under my skin and forced a light, easy smile.
“Probably just one of those faces.”

“No...” he said quietly, his focus unwavering. “It’s not just your eyes—it’s the way you look at me. Like...” he hesitated, measuring each word before releasing it. “...like you already know how this ends.”

Cynic Kyra: Abort mission immediately. Before he starts connecting the dots.

✦✦✦

➤ RETREAT, REGRET & RED FLAGS
7:48 PM — The Cloister Café, Beacon Hill

I stood abruptly, breaking whatever unsteady rhythm we’d fallen into.
"Well, I've fulfilled my knightess-in-shining-armor duties for the day. Enjoy your freedom."

"Wait—" He caught my hand, his grip firm but not demanding. "What's your name?"

"Wouldn’t you like to know."

"I would, actually. Most women don't show up and fake-claim me as their betrothed like I’m some unpaid parking ticket."

"Guess I'm just one of a kind."

"Absolutely."

A sly, wolfish grin spread across his face.
"You make the word fiancée sound like both a prank call and a fairy tale."

His gaze flitted over me—not in a way that made my skin crawl, but in a way that felt... steady.
And I hated that it made me feel... good.
Warm.
Seen.

Then I remembered: This was precisely what I couldn’t afford to feel.

Spinning on my heels, I walked away before my reckless heart could tighten the noose any further.

He didn’t follow.
But his gaze?
That stayed with me, searing into my back like a brand.

Deep down, I knew it already:

Cynic Kyra: Congratulations, Kyra—enjoy your inevitable descent into chaotic, emotional hell.

I’d broken the only rule that had kept me safe for twenty years.

This was supposed to be a simple one-time rescue mission.

But that look?
That wasn’t the end.

That was the prologue to something much, much worse.