His for a year. - Chapter 28: Chapter 28

After an hour of pretending to play—and pretending not to stare at each other—we sat under the shade of the outdoor lounge, overlooking the greens. A waiter brought us cold drinks; something citrusy and sweet for me, and something darker for him.
He leaned back into the seat, one arm stretched across the backrest, sunglasses perched on his head now. “So,” he said, watching me. “On a scale of one to ten, how much do you hate golf now?”
I sipped my drink slowly. “Still a solid eight.”
He smirked. “I’ll take it.”
I set my cup down and glanced at him, catching his eyes already on me. “So you really cancelled your day just for this?”
“For you,” he said without hesitation. “You looked like you needed a day. And… I needed one too.”
I looked down at my fingers. “You don’t seem like someone who gets tired.”
“I get tired of pretending I don’t,” he murmured.
My eyes flicked up to meet his.
“Sometimes I want quiet,” he continued. “Someone who doesn’t need anything from me except… me.”
My heart twisted a little. I wasn’t sure what to say to that. But I understood it.
Maybe too well.
“And you…” he added, “don’t ask for much. Even when you should.”
My breath caught. “What do you mean?”
“You hold too much in. You let people think you’re fine when you’re not.” His voice dropped. “That’s dangerous, Olive.”
I swallowed hard. “It’s easier that way.”
“It’s lonely that way.”
The words landed hard between us. I didn’t know if he meant it for me or him or both.
Maybe all three.
We sat in silence for a moment, the kind that pulsed with everything unspoken.
Then Zade turned toward me, resting one elbow on the table, studying my face.
“You’ve been crying,” he said quietly. “Even this morning, you looked like you hadn’t slept.”
My lips parted. I wanted to say something. I wanted to tell him everything. About Amanda. His father. My father. The lies and the weight of it all pressing against my chest.
But instead, I whispered, “I’m okay.”
He stared at me, not believing it. But he didn’t push.
“Don’t lie to me,” he said. “Not you.”
My pulse raced. “I’m not lying.”
“Good,” he murmured. “Because I wouldn’t know what to do if you were.”
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved.
“Let's get back to our practice,” he stood abruptly.
We played until the sun started folding behind moody clouds. The sky had turned an uncertain shade of gray, and the gentle breeze had picked up into something heavier. I had missed almost every hit, but I’d laughed so much, my ribs hurt.
Zade had been standing behind me, his hand over mine on the golf club, correcting my stance with the patience of a man who wanted me to stay wrong just so he could keep correcting me.
“You’re supposed to bend slightly—no, not like that,” he said, voice right by my ear.
“Zade, I swear you’re doing this on purpose.”
He chuckled, low. “I am. It’s working.”
Just as I swung and missed—again—a soft growl of thunder echoed overhead. The first drop fell. Then another. Then the skies cracked open and the rain came in quick, heavy drops.
I gasped as the cold hit my skin. “Oh my God!” I squealed, grabbing the club like it would save me.
He laughed, tossing the club aside and grabbing my hand. “Come on, let’s take cover!”
We ran, side by side, soaking through within seconds. My shirt clung to me like second skin, water in my hair dripping down my back, rainwater racing over my cheeks. He pulled me under a tree canopy near the edge of the course—not great shelter, but it was something.
I leaned against the tree trunk, panting, laughing breathlessly. He stood in front of me, hands on either side of me against the bark, caging me in without touching me.
“You’re—” I started.
“Soaked? You should see yourself,” he said, eyes scanning me like it was the first time he was really looking.
The time seemed to have paused.
Rain drowned the world around us, but inside that moment, it was just us.
His eyes dropped to my lips.
And stayed there.
“I…” my voice caught in my throat. “What?”
He didn’t answer. Just leaned in a little. Close enough that I felt the heat of his breath despite the chill. His fingers lifted to tuck a wet strand of hair behind my ear. His palm lingered against my cheek.
And then, the tension cracked louder than the thunder.
He leaned in, his lips very close to mine—but not touching.
“Do you want this?” he whispered, his forehead brushing mine. “Or are you still pretending?”
My heart slammed against my chest.
I didn’t know how to answer. Not honestly.
So I didn’t.
And just like that, he pulled back slowly, eyes still on my lips. “Didn’t think so,” he said, though his voice wasn’t as sure as his words.
He stepped back and ran a hand through his wet hair, his jaw clenched. His polo clinging to his body so much that I could see the lines constructing his abs.
My breath stayed lodged in my throat.
Because I wanted to say yes. So badly.
The air around us tightened.
But instead of closing the distance, he pulled back slightly, exhaled, and said, “We should go.”
The moment cracked like glass.
We jogged towards the car and got in.
Zade was behind the wheel, one hand gripping it tighter than necessary, his other arm resting on the console. His jaw was sharp, clenched just enough to show restraint. His shirt was damp, clinging in places it shouldn’t, and his hair—usually so precise—was a tousled mess from the rain. I was so glad he wore jeans shorts, I couldn't imagine what I would have felt.
He hadn't said a word since we got into the car. Neither had I.
I folded my arms, watching the droplets race down my window. My heart was still pounding, not just from the weather or the cold but from the way he looked at me when our faces were just inches apart—like he was going to kiss me. Like he wanted me.
I kept sneaking glances at him. He caught me, briefly. His eyes flickered over, then back to the road.
“You cold?” he asked, voice lower than usual.
I shook my head. “No. I’m fine.”
He nodded. Silence returned.
Seconds stretched. A raindrop slid down my neck, and I shivered slightly.
He noticed.
Without a word, he reached back, grabbed his blazer from the back seat, and handed it to me. Our fingers brushed, sending a shiver down my spine.
“Thanks,” I muttered, pulling it over my shoulders. It smelled like his cologne—woodsy, expensive, grounding.
Thicker silence fell.
“So... that almost happened,” he said, eyes still on the road.
I didn't respond immediately.
“I mean,” he continued, tone almost too casual, “you nearly fell. That’s all.”
I snorted lightly. “Right. That’s all.”
He glanced at me, a slow smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “You disagree?”
I rolled my eyes, but my cheeks betrayed me, heating up instantly. “You’re so full of yourself.”
He chuckled, deep and warm. “And you’re terrible at pretending nothing happened. Stop being so easy.”
We drove a little farther.
“You make me want to forget all my rules, Olive.”
I turned sharply to him, unsure I heard him right. He didn’t explain. Just shifted in his seat and tapped the steering wheel like he didn’t just say something that was going to haunt me all night.
We pulled into the driveway.
I opened the door before he could circle around for it. “Thanks for the... golf lesson.”
He leaned slightly across the car. “Anytime.”
I stepped out into the soft drizzle, his blazer still wrapped around my shoulders. As I walked toward the entrance, I didn’t look back. But I could feel him watching.
And for the first time... I wondered if he was falling too.
I climbed the stairs quickly, my arms hugging myself, Zade’s blazer still wrapped around my shoulders. My skin was damp and cool from the rain, but my mind felt hot—foggy from everything I felt, everything I wasn't ready to name.
I reached my door, my fingers fumbling at the handle, still shaken by how close we had gotten to… whatever that moment at the golf course was.
As I turned to close the door behind me, I saw Zade closely behind the door.
“Agh!” I gasped, stumbling back.
His figure loomed in the hallway, hands in his pockets, laughing like he hadn’t just shaved ten years off my life.
“Zade!” I exclaimed, breathless. “You scared me.”
He smirked, leaning one shoulder on the doorframe. “You should’ve seen your face. Priceless.”
I tried to glare but ended up chuckling. “What are you doing?”
“The day’s not over yet,” he said, brushing past me like he owned the place—which, technically, he did. “I’ve got nothing to do, and you looked like someone who could use a warm meal.”
“You want to eat now?” I asked, unsure of what to say.
“Think harder.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You want to cook?”
He paused mid-step and flashed a boyish grin. “I’m full of surprises, Olive.”
Fifteen minutes later, after drying myself and putting my wet clothes away, I slipped into a loose hoodie and joggers. When I walked into the kitchen, I found him already pulling ingredients out of the fridge. He was in a black T-shirt and sweatpants that somehow looked like they were tailored.
“Rice and chicken curry sauce,” he announced. “Chef Zade’s specialty. Or at least, the only thing I won’t burn.”
I leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Should I be worried?”
“No. Just charmed.”
He started chopping onions with a confidence that both impressed and alarmed me. We talked while he cooked—about music, bad school lunches, and how Anna once accidentally sent a voice note complaining about Zade… to Zade.
I laughed so hard I nearly choked on a sip of water.
“You’re not as terrifying as people think,” I said, wiping tears from my eyes.
Zade raised an eyebrow. “Please. I have a reputation to protect.”
I rolled my eyes, but my heart felt warm now, my nerves steady. I had started enjoying the evening, enjoying this different Zade, started to enjoy—
Then we heard footsteps, heels clicking.
I froze as I watched Mrs Eloise walk into the kitchen. She wore a dark green silk blouse and cream trousers, her presence seemed to dim the light around her. Cold. Elegant. Unsmiling.
Her eyes landed on me, then flickered to her son.
“Oh,” she said flatly. “You’re home.”
Zade didn't look up from the pan. “Good evening, Mother.”
Eloise walked farther in, pausing to glance at the food like it offended her.
“I see your wife has made you forget your upbringing. Cooking in the kitchen like staff. How charming.”
I stood a little straighter, unsure if I should stay or vanish.
“She didn’t make me do anything,” Zade says, tone even. “If you'd been an attentive mother, you'd realise I used to cook.”
Eloise scoffed. “Of course you did.”
Her eyes returned to me, sharp as ever. “You’ve been quite the influence, haven’t you, Miss Trevor? Or should I say… Mrs. Lloyd.”
I didn't respond, my stomach twisted. His mother's aura was always suffocating.
Zade set the spoon down. “What do you want, Mother?”
Eloise smiled—tight, cold. “Just to invite you both to my birthday celebration. Next Thursday. Fifty looks good on me. Don’t you think?”
Zade leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “I don’t like birthdays.”
“I don’t like being ignored either,” she replied coolly. “You’ve missed every birthday celebration in this family for the past five years. I thought your new… situation might inspire some manners.”
Zade raised a brow. “Guilt-tripping doesn't work on me.”
She shrugged. “It’s worked before.”
He didn't flinch. “Not this time.”
Eloise sighed dramatically, turned to me, and said in the sweetest false tone I'd ever heard, “I do hope you’ll convince him, dear. I’d love to see what you wear.”
And with that, she turned on her heel and left the room.
I exhaled only when the click of heels faded completely.
“She’s… intense,” I said carefully.
Zade shrugged. “That? That's her being polite.”
“She’s also right,” Olive says after a moment. “You should go. Just this once. You're her son”
Zade turned to look at me, his brows slightly raised. “Seriously?”
I nodded. “She’s your mother, Zade.”
He studied my face for a long moment, then sighed. His expression made me feel I'd crossed my limit or said something I shouldn't have.
He lifted the cooking spoon. “Now taste this before I decide you’re ungrateful.”
I did. It was really good.
I realised that we weren't all that my heart was making me feel and I was getting into my head. Zade was just being nice, he's a human being. He had pitied me yesterday and decided to make me feel better. Nothing more, nothing less.
That warmth I felt earlier quickly became a distant memory.
In the days leading up to Mrs. Eloise’s birthday, the entire fortress transformed. Event planners paraded in and out of the estate with clipboards and headsets, barking orders like generals. World-renowned chefs I’d only seen on cooking shows passed me in the hallways with silver trays and crystal vials of strange ingredients. Dignitaries and socialites arrived daily, always dressed like they were walking runways.
Sofia became a constant presence, flitting between fittings for Mrs. Eloise’s gowns and my own dresses. She measured me no fewer than four times, muttering to herself about silhouettes and proportions. On the final fitting day, she smiled proudly and said, “You’re going to shut that party down.”
When the day finally arrived, I was handed a gown so delicate I was afraid to breathe in it—an icy white dress with a bold slit that stopped at mid-thigh and hugged my body like it had been made by the gods. My hair was styled into a sleek bun, a few loose strands curling near my temples. My heels—nude, sparkly Louis Vuittons—clicked against the marble as I descended the grand staircase.
“I am so proud,” Sofia murmured.
I chuckled. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”
The hall was a sea of elegance—glass chandeliers glittered like stars, violins played something classical and forgettable, and the air was thick with perfume and superiority. It was beautiful. And, for me, deeply boring. I wondered how rich people enjoyed this.
I barely had time to breathe when a familiar voice made me spin around.
“Olive?”
My jaw dropped. “Aliyah?”
She looked radiant in a satin blue dress, her hair curled and glossy. But it wasn’t just her—Jake stood beside her, adjusting his tie awkwardly.
“You—how—”
“Zade invited us. And Amanda,” Aliyah said, grinning. “He said he thought you might want some familiar faces.”
My heart squeezed. I never expected that. Not from him. Is this his way of cheering me up? I loved it so much.
“Where’s Amanda?” I asked, glancing over her shoulder.
Aliyah frowned. “I haven’t seen her since we got here."
We chatted for a while, catching up. Aliyah winced and complained that her heels were already torturing her toes, I offered to run upstairs and get her a more comfortable pair from my closet.
I headed up the wide marble staircase of me and Zade's wing, glad for the quiet. The moment I reached the hallway, I slowed down. Something felt… off.
The light in my room was on.
My brows pulled together.
I stepped into the room, the door swinging open silently on its hinges—and froze when I saw her.
Amanda.