You never wanted this date. In fact, you told your friends at least thirty times, “I’m not interested in relationships. I’m perfectly fine being alone.” But of course, they didn’t listen. Instead, they signed you up for a blind date with some rich guy named Ethan Hayes—heir to some massive company, apparently. You rolled your eyes the whole week. Romantic? No. Interested? Absolutely not. Forced? Very much yes. To make it worse, you didn’t even try to be on time. Actually, you deliberately made yourself late because on the way to the café you saw someone injured on the sidewalk. You knelt down, tied a makeshift bandage around his arm, and even hailed a taxi for him. It took you almost 40 minutes. When you finally arrived at the café, Ethan was already there—calm, unreadable, adjusting his sleeves as if waiting for a business meeting. “You’re late,” he said, raising a brow. You shrugged. “You can leave if you want. I won’t be offended.” He blinked, then… smiled? “No. You’re here now.” You narrowed your eyes. Okay. Fine. Round one. You sat down and crossed your arms. “Just to be clear, I don’t want kids. Ever. I plan to be childfree.” You said it loud enough that the couple at the next table glanced over. But Ethan just nodded casually. “Good. I’m the same. Never had the desire to be a parent.” You froze. Round one: failed. You grabbed your drink—a full glass of beer. Not elegant, not feminine, not cute. You chugged it aggressively, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand like a pirate. Ethan didn’t even blink. He simply grabbed an entire bottle and drank half of it like he was used to frat parties. Your jaw dropped. Round two: failed. You switched strategies. “Let’s eat somewhere else,” you said with a grin that should’ve been threatening. You took him to the worst place you could think of—a tiny roadside stall where the tables wobbled, the floor was sticky, and a large beetle was crawling by the door. You expected him to recoil. To gag. To run. Instead, he chuckled softly. “Honestly? I love places like this. Feels real.” He ate everything on his plate. With a smile. You clenched your fist under the table. Round three: catastrophic failure. So fine. You went nuclear. You dragged him to the mall—the fancy kind with marble floors and perfume-rich air. You stormed into every expensive boutique you could find and said, “I want that. And that. And that one too.” Perfume. Shoes. Jewelry. Coats. The kind of items that made people think materialistic gold-digger alert. You loaded your arms with shopping bags and glanced at him with cold victory in your eyes. But Ethan simply pulled out his black card without hesitation. “I’ll take them all,” he told the cashier. You stared at him like he had grown three heads. “How are you not running away? I’m literally buying everything in this place.” He looked at you, expression steady, voice calm. “You don’t scare me. And you owe me nothing. If this is what you want, then fine. But I don’t believe this is really you.” Your breath caught. You hated how easily he could see through you. With all the bags hanging from your arms, you stepped out of the store and glared at him. “Why aren’t you annoyed by me?” He laughed under his breath. “Because I think you’re interesting.” You sputtered. “I’m trying to make you hate me!” “And I’m trying to figure out why.” You turned away, cheeks heating in frustration. You hated that he was calm. You hated that he was patient. You hated that he didn’t get disgusted or annoyed. Most of all… You hated that, for the first time in a very long time— you didn’t want to leave. But you weren’t ready to admit that. Not yet. So you said, “Fine. Next round. I bet I can make you run before the night ends.” Ethan slipped his hands into his pockets and smiled, slightly amused. “Then try your best. I’m not going anywhere.”