Contract Marriage: I’ve Always Loved You

As the evening approaches, we’re on the private jet, seated side by side but worlds apart. Paris is a city of romance, and I think of how ironic it is to go there with Grace.

As the air hostess brings the wrong drink for her, Grace rebukes her, raising my anger. “What the hell? Didn’t I make myself clear to you to bring red wine for me? You all are so useless-”

I can’t bear her behaviour any longer and interject.

“Shut up, Grace.” I snap, my tone harsh and final.

“Please, I don’t want your lecture again, Mr Grey.” She retorts in annoyance before turning her attention back to the air hostess.

“Now, why are you still standing here? Go bring my drink,” she orders with no regard for basic courtesy, and the air hostess leaves after bowing to her.

“You can’t behave like this with her, Grace.” I chide her.

She rolls her eyes. “Why? Is she your girlfriend?”

“Shut up.” I mutter, increasingly frustrated by her antics.

“I’ll shut up if you stop lecturing me all the time.” She folds her arms across her chest in attitude.

“You’re in my private jet, Grace, so you must treat all the staff here with respect.” I instruct her in a firm tone.

She questions my authority. “What if I don’t? Will you push me out of the plane at 30, 000 feet?”

I let out an exasperated sigh. “No, but I can certainly lock you in the bathroom for the rest of the journey if you keep this up.”Content bel0ngs to Nôvel(D)r/a/ma.Org.

Her eyes sparkle with mischief, and a smirk dances across her face. “Okay, sir. I’ll be on my best behaviour, and I promise to take your permission for every little thing.”

I wonder now what’s going on in her tiny mind.

The next moment only, she begins eating up my mind with her unnecessary and stupid questions. Her behaviour is beyond irritating, and I’m already regretting this trip to Paris.

“Sir, can I move my finger?” she mocks, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Sir, can I lick my lips? Sir, can I cough?” Every question comes with a smirk that pushes my patience to its limits.

I’ve had enough. “Grace, if you don’t stop this nonsense right now, you’ll regret it.”

She doesn’t seem fazed by my threat. “Sir, can I breathe?” She teases, laughing, enjoying pushing my buttons.

I reach my limit and hold her arms in a firm grip, my voice low and menacing. “Shut up, Grace, or else I’ll gag you with my hankie.”

Her eyes widen in horror, and for the first time, it seems like my warning has had an effect. She stops irritating me with her stupid questions and finally falls silent.

However, it shocks me. Why did she give up on our fight so easily? For the first time, I saw fear in her eyes.

But I’m so delighted to finally find a way to control her.

I smirk, staring at her through the corner of my eyes while she remains engrossed in her phone.

***

We reach Paris after a few hours. The hotel my father chose is elegant, with a view of the Eiffel Tower. The room is adorned with roses and champagne, a honeymoon suite that screams romance. I wonder what I’m doing here with Grace.

If I had come to this romantic place with my love, it would have been so special. But now that I’ve come here with my enemy, she will definitely regret coming on a honeymoon with me.

She lies down on the bed, closing her eyes in contentment after causing chaos in my life.

After a few minutes, she suddenly rises and stands in front of the large glass window. She takes out a cigarette from her sling bag and begins to smoke while gazing at the beautiful view outside.

For a moment, I get lost in her captivating face, but then reality hits me hard. She may be beautiful on the outside, but inside, she’s nothing but a pure devil, concealing her wickedness behind her beauty.

I lie down on the bed to take some rest, and she takes out her dress from the luggage and goes to the bathroom.

After a few minutes,

As I hear the bathroom door opening, I open my eyes.

Grace stands in front of the mirror, and I notice that the zipper on the backside of her dress is open. She struggles to close it, her frustration evident, and I chuckle at her helpless expression.

I know she won’t ask me to help her because it would bruise her ego. I get up from the bed and stroll towards her automatically.

She glances at me through the mirror, still struggling with the zipper.

“You can ask for the help.” I suggest, trying to hide my smile.

“From you, never!” She retorts with an air of defiance.

Her refusal to accept help from me doesn’t surprise me. Grace is not the type of person to ask for help, especially not from someone she views as an enemy. Still, it amuses me how she’ll go to great lengths to avoid a simple request.

I decide to play along with her game. “Well then, good luck with that zipper.” I reply, shrugging as if it doesn’t matter to me.

I turn away and return to the bed.

However, I steal glances at her as she continues to struggle with the zipper.

“Fuck! This zipper!” She mutters, irked.

The sight of her irritation mixed with determination is oddly endearing.

After a few moments, I hear a defeated sigh, and her shoulders slump slightly.

She reluctantly admits, “Okay, maybe I need some help with this damn zipper.”

I hide a smug grin and turn to her. “It’s not that easy to handle, I suppose. Let me do it.”

She shoots me an annoyed through the mirror. “Fine, just get it over with.”

I step closer and gently take hold of the zipper. My hand touches her bare skin, sending shivers down her spine. Our proximity creates an electric tension between us.

Her breath hitches, and I can see a hint of surprise in her eyes as I close the zipper, moving it slowly to ensure I don’t snag any fabric.

As the zipper moves up, inch by inch, I gaze at her through the mirror and feel a strange connection with her at this moment.

When I finally close it, she lets out a relieved breath, and her tense shoulders relax.

“There you go.” I step back. “All fixed.”

She nods, her expression not entirely hostile. “Thanks.”

I’m taken aback by her expression of gratitude. She seems to be aware of basic manners.

“I didn’t expect a thank-you from someone like you,” I begin, but she interrupts.

“What do you mean by ‘someone like you’?” she yells.

“You know exactly what I mean,” I reply with a knowing look.

She narrows her eyes at me, irritated by my statement. “No, I don’t know what you mean. So, please, enlighten me.”

“Someone who has no manners to how to treat others.” I can see the anger in her eyes as she understands my words.

“Go to hell! I don’t care what you think of me!” She exclaims in frustration and starts rummaging through her suitcase.

I shake my head and turn my attention to the view outside the window. The Eiffel Tower is illuminated, casting a romantic glow over the city of Paris.

She finishes her makeup and informs me. “I’m leaving.”

I turn towards her and enquire, “Where?”

“I don’t think it is important for me to inform you where I’m going, Mr. Grey.”

It’s true; we’re not on this honeymoon as a loving couple. Still, I can’t stop worrying about her whereabouts, especially in a foreign city like Paris.

“Grace, just be careful.” These words slip out of my mouth automatically. I can’t shut off the concern that seems to be buried deep within me.

She raises an eyebrow, taken aback by my comment. “Why do you care?”

I struggle to find the right words. “I-I don’t want any unnecessary trouble. You can do whatever you want, but Paris is unfamiliar to both of us. Just be safe.”

For a moment, her expression softens, as if she didn’t expect this concern from me.

“I know how to take care of myself, Steve. Don’t bother about me.” She gives me a curt response.

With that, she leaves the hotel room, and I’m left alone with my thoughts.

No, no, I can’t leave her alone. On this so-called honeymoon, it’s my responsibility to take care of her.

I rush outside, texting the driver to take out my car. As I reach out, I notice her sitting in the cab.

I settle into my car and ask the driver to follow her.