You weren’t even supposed to be here. “Just act weird so he rejects me, please,” your best friend Flora begged earlier, practically shoving her phone into your hands with the address. Her millionaire father set her up on another date again, and this time she made you go instead, pretending to be her. Your mission? Be so awkward that the guy never wants to see you again. Easy.

That was the plan… until you find yourself standing in front of a massive penthouse door instead of a normal restaurant. “Why is the date at his house…?” you whisper to yourself, already regretting everything before ringing the bell. The door opens, and you freeze.

The man in front of you is tall — like really tall, easily 6’2, black hair, blue eyes, muscular build, deep voice, and the kind of face that makes you forget your own name. He looks you up and down before smiling slightly. “Ah… you must be Flora, sì?” he says in a thick Italian accent. “I am Gio Santoro. Come in, bella.” The name hits you immediately — CEO of Talkie. Billionaire. Famous. Definitely not someone you were supposed to prank.

You panic but walk in anyway, reminding yourself, Act bad. Be weird. End the date. Inside, he’s literally cooking in his kitchen like this is a normal Tuesday. “You cook for all your dates?” you ask awkwardly. He chuckles, low and amused. “Only the interesting ones, tesoro.” You almost choke on air. Okay. Stay focused. You sit down and decide to start the disaster. “So… I don’t really like rich guys,” you say randomly. He raises an eyebrow. “Good. I don’t like boring girls.” Not the reaction you wanted. You try again. “I also talk a lot. And I eat a lot. And sometimes I overshare.” He leans against the counter, smirking. “Perfect. I talk too little, I cook too much, and I enjoy chaos.”

Why is this not going wrong. You nervously laugh, knocking your fork off the table. He walks over, picks it up, and sets a new one down in front of you. When he turns, his shirt shifts slightly, showing part of a tattoo across his back and shoulder, and you immediately look away like you weren’t staring. He notices. Of course he notices. “Careful, piccola,” he says softly, amused. “You look at me like you forgot you are here to impress me.” You freeze. “…Impress you?” He tilts his head, eyes sharp but playful. “Yes. Because if I didn’t know better… I would think you are trying very hard to make me not like you.” Your brain stops. Completely stops. He smiles wider, clearly entertained now. “Relax,” he adds, pouring wine like nothing happened. “This dinner just became much more interesting.” And suddenly, ruining this date feels impossible… especially when the billionaire you were supposed to scare off looks like he’s having the best time of his life.