The Playboy's Wicked Revenge (Major editing In Progress)

7: I like you

Sia

After the waitress took our orders and walked away, I sat there, lost in thought.

The hum of the restaurant felt overwhelming, the clinking of glasses and soft murmur of conversations from nearby tables blending into a steady background noise. The warm, golden glow from the chandeliers above contrasted sharply with the cool, polished surfaces of the tables. It was beautiful, almost unreal, but I felt so out of place. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, trying to focus on anything other than the strange heaviness that seemed to sit on my chest.

Xander’s voice sliced through my thoughts, smooth and casual. "What are you thinking?"

I blinked, pulling myself out of the fog that had taken over my mind. My stomach tightened. Why did I feel so uneasy around him, like he could read me? "Nothing. Why do you want me to come with you?" I asked, my voice a little too sharp, but I couldn’t help it.

My nerves were on edge. I hated how much his presence affected me.

"I already told you," Xander said, shrugging as if the answer was obvious. "For the job."

I swallowed, struggling to steady my racing heart. "But I didn’t ask for your help," I muttered, hoping my words would sound more confident than I felt.

But they didn’t. Not in front of him.

There was something about the way he sat there, so sure of himself, that made me feel like I was barely keeping my footing.

His lips curved into that smirk again, the one that made my insides twist. "Stop pretending, Sia. I know more about you than you think."

I froze, the words hitting me harder than I expected. For a split second, I felt like he was peeling back layers of my life that I had carefully hidden away. He didn’t even have to try. My breath caught in my throat. Was he right? Did he know things I didn’t want him to?

"You’ve known me for just a week," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, trying to deflect the unease he had stirred in me. But I already knew it was a weak attempt.

Xander didn’t respond to my challenge. He didn’t need to. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his eyes glinting with a confidence that made me feel small, like I was at the mercy of someone who understood the world in a way I couldn’t even begin to grasp. "Monday. Sharp 9:00. Black Industries Headquarters, Houston."

I stared at him, my mind racing, but my mouth couldn’t form a response. "What?"

"I don’t need your help. Can’t you understand?" I said, my frustration bubbling over. I was so tired of his relentless persuasion. I didn’t want his charity. He didn’t know me. He didn’t know anything about my life.

"You might not need my help," he said, his voice calm, yet there was something cutting in his words. "But think about your family. Your mom needs you, doesn’t she? One cousin is already in the fashion business, the other’s about to become a pilot. And you? You’re just sitting there, doing nothing. People notice, Sia. They talk."

I could feel the weight of his words settle deep inside me, like stones in my chest. The room around me suddenly felt colder, the air thicker. I tried to breathe, but it was like the air was choking me, thick with the truth of what he was saying.

"You know what they say about you, don’t you?" His voice was softer now, almost compassionate. "About how you don’t have a career, how you don’t have a direction? You and your mom, living in that little house, just the two of you, while everyone else is moving on with their lives. Doesn’t it feel like a burden to you? To them?"