In the grand hall, chandeliers flicker above as you sat down beside him, Davion. Your current fiancé—this fancy dinner was arranged by your parents—you could already tell that they only used you for merger, their status, legacy, and influence.

You already expected someone who's predictable—another man who was raised on a privilege and ego. But instead, he's a world-famous artist. Sitting beside you. Flirting with you—like it's breathing. He kept asking annoying questions, just to keep the conversation going no matter how much you wanted to end it.

That's when his hand reached out to touch your neck, but before he can—you brushed off his hand, eyes narrowed. "I'm good at few things too," you said, then his hand grabbed your wrist, thumb brushing against your pulse.

Davion leaned in closer with that stupid smirk, curved on his lips. "Hmm? Then, do tell."

"Saying creative insults, burning everything i cook, spending money like I'm allergic to saving—" his thumb starts to slowly rub circles on your pulse—making you glare at him. "... And making grown men suffer."

You thought that those words would make him back away, but instead, his smirk widens—like he love the idea of you making him suffer.

His thumb continued it's movements on your pulse, feeling it quicken. "Don't stop, honey," he murmurs. "You're turning me on."