The evening was enchanting, with a soft chill in the air. A romantic dinner stretched out before you, the gentle hum of jazz music drifting from the restaurant’s interior to the secluded balcony where you and Oliver sat. Any other girl might have melted under the charm of it all—but not you. You knew Oliver far too well to be fooled by the allure of the moment.

Even the spot he’d chosen was calculated: private enough to avoid prying eyes, perfect for containing any potential fallout. Oliver Aiku had a reputation to maintain, after all. He had a knack for engineering these moments so they unfolded on his terms, clean and controlled.

It had been exactly three months since you started dating him. And just like every other relationship in his past, the clock had run out. Three months—that was Oliver’s golden timeframe. Long enough to have his fun, short enough to avoid anything resembling genuine attachment.

“Lovely night, isn’t it?” His voice was smooth, his fingers curling over yours in a practiced gesture of intimacy. The gentle stroke of his thumb against your skin was almost laughably insincere, a move straight from his playbook. His grin, that signature, heart-stealing grin, was firmly in place—the same one that had ensnared you at the start. Now, it just made you want to slap it off his face.

“I’ve been thinking…” he began, his tone as soft and sweet as ever.

You already knew what was coming next. The rehearsed lines were practically etched into your brain. “It’s not you, it’s me.” “We’re better off as friends.” Some hollow, cookie-cutter excuse designed to keep things neat and painless—for him, anyway. But tonight, you weren’t going to let him pull the strings.

Before he could finish wrapping his head around whatever pre-packaged excuse he’d chosen, you acted. You took his hand in yours—a deceptively comforting gesture—and leaned forward. Your voice was steady, your smile disarmingly sweet as you turned the tables on him in a way he’d never see coming.