Playing Fire with My Ice-King BOSS: V-Card for One Night, Ring Forever - Chapter 13: Chapter 13

Isabelle's POV
"Since the door's already destroyed, why not move tonight?"
"Move in with me."
Jeremiah's words kept playing on repeat in my head like some twisted broken record.
For just a split second, something dangerous stirred in my chest—something warm and absolutely terrifying. But I crushed that feeling before it could take root and destroy what was left of my sanity.
"Jeremiah, are you out of your fucking mind? You need to leave. There are dozens of trust fund princesses throwing themselves at you every day. I'm just some random employee—literally any of them would be a better choice than me..."
He cut me off mid-ramble with one devastating sentence: "Not every woman gets the privilege of sleeping with me."
Jesus Christ.
So the ice king was actually... a traditionalist? That explained his whole "Mrs. Winslet" proposal the morning after. He was one of those old-school guys who took sex seriously, like it meant something.
My face went supernova, and I frantically started chugging water to hide my complete mortification.
"Be safe tonight. Call if you need anything." Jeremiah stood up and carefully navigated through my apartment disaster zone toward what used to be my front door.
"Jeremiah."
I called out just as he was about to leave.
He stopped in his tracks, and for a moment it seemed like he was waiting—maybe hoping—for a different response.
But all I managed was, "Thank you."
No expression, no acknowledgment.
He just walked out into the hallway.
I'd lost count of how many times I'd called him by his first name like we were equals, like old friends instead of CEO and subordinate.
Watching him disappear, then staring at my destroyed door, the harsh reality of my situation crashed down.
Growing up in a broken home and getting completely fucked over by Conrad had pretty much murdered any romantic fantasies I'd ever had. If some other woman had been in his bed that night, he probably would've made her the same offer.
This wasn't about me personally—it was just about the consequences of what we'd done.
I booked a hotel room for the night, arranged for my landlord to fix the door, and then, as darkness fell, I drove to the auto repair shop where Conrad always took his car.
The place belonged to Skye's uncle—my final parting gift to the happy fucking couple.
I spun them a story about my dashcam malfunctioning and needing repair, making sure to casually mention I was Conrad's friend.
The mechanics recognized my BMW from when he'd brought it in before, so Uncle Miller personally handled the dashcam inspection.
I played the part of the trusting, clueless girlfriend, left my car in their capable hands, and walked away with a smile.
By Wednesday morning, the engagement party had been completely cancelled.
Uncle Miller had obviously discovered the recorded conversations on my dashcam and found the spy camera I'd strategically planted.
The Miller family was already furious that Conrad had zero genuine feelings for Skye, but his demands for an abortion were the absolute final straw. They nuked the entire arrangement.
Meanwhile, the Fisher family was having a complete meltdown—their precious son had knocked someone up, couldn't marry her, and had just lost all their political connections in one spectacular implosion.
Orchestrating someone else's destruction while keeping your hands clean? Pure fucking art.
I spent the next few days walking on air, but I still needed to find housing fast. Once this drama bomb fully detonated and people figured out I'd been pulling the strings, things could get very ugly very quickly.
A few days later, I was practically bouncing as I left work, waiting for the elevator with unusual excitement about my evening plans.
Ding.
The doors slid open to reveal Jeremiah and Gordon standing inside.
History apparently had a sick sense of humor. I stepped in, and just like our previous elevator encounters, we hit the 18th floor and got invaded by the entire chatty PR department.
I tried squeezing toward the corner to create some distance between us, but the crowd immediately pushed me right up against Jeremiah's side.
I took a shaky breath and felt like the oxygen was being sucked out of the small space.
"Isabelle, scoot over just a little more," one of my well-meaning coworkers said, eyeing the microscopic gap between Jeremiah and me before literally shoving me even closer to him.
I stumbled forward and nearly face-planted, instinctively reaching out to grab something—anything—for balance. My hand landed squarely on his warm, strong palm.
"Fuck!" I whispered in panic, trying to steady myself while simultaneously attempting to yank my hand away. But he held on with surprising firmness.
This was a nightmare. If anyone noticed this little moment, I'd never hear the end of it.
Just then, my phone buzzed with a text that gave me the perfect distraction to finally free my hand.
Message from the tailor: Shirt is completed. Can you come by tonight to pick it up? [Location]
Absolutely.
Your boyfriend is going to love it.
Oh shit.
I quickly killed my screen, but not before the man standing directly next to me caught every single word—the profile picture, the location pin, and especially that loaded word "boyfriend."
When we finally reached the parking garage, I practically sprinted to my car and peeled out, following my GPS to the mystery location.
The directions led me to the gates of what could only be described as a fucking palace. Serious old-money estate vibes with security guards who weren't letting anyone through without proper clearance.
I was about to text asking for help when another message appeared:
Wait by the front gate for a couple minutes.
I climbed out of my car to properly appreciate the view while I waited.
The place looked like something from a European fairy tale—a genuine castle-style mansion set on perfectly manicured grounds with ancient oak trees scattered across rolling lawns.
That's when a familiar luxury sedan pulled up right beside me, and the driver's window rolled down.
Jeremiah Winslet.
We locked eyes through our respective car windows in mutual shock and horror.
The security team immediately began opening the massive iron gates for him, but he didn't drive through.
"There's Jere's girl! Sorry to keep you waiting, sweetheart!" An distinguished elderly man came hustling out of the estate with the biggest smile I'd ever seen.
"Jere's girl?"
Both Jeremiah and I looked absolutely stunned.
"Why are you two in separate cars? Did you have some kind of argument?" The old man looked between our vehicles with genuine concern.
I shot Jeremiah the most desperate, pleading look I could manage.
Jeremiah let out what sounded like a laugh mixed with a groan and got out of his car.
"Grandpa, head back inside. We'll be right there."
He gently but firmly guided the elderly man back toward the estate entrance.
Cleveland Winslet looked disappointed but didn't want to interfere in what he obviously thought was a lovers' quarrel, so he reluctantly retreated but stayed within eavesdropping distance.
Jeremiah stalked over to me with that full CEO intimidation factor cranked to maximum.
"What the actual fuck is happening right now?" His voice could have frozen hell over.
I backed up several steps, trying my best to look innocent and confused. "I honestly have no clue. I literally just came here to pick up a shirt."
"Then why is my grandfather calling you my girlfriend?" His tone was sharp with accusation, like he was pissed about being rejected earlier and then finding me at his family home.
"I swear I don't know..." I racked my brain frantically. "I ordered you a custom shirt. To replace the ones I accidentally destroyed..."
Jeremiah looked genuinely shocked. "How the hell did you know my measurements?"
My answer came out barely above a whisper, "I didn't have your measurements. I brought your suit jacket and told the tailor... I told him..."
Fuck my entire life. My face was on fire.
"Told him what, exactly?"
"I said... I said it was for my boyfriend and asked him to create a shirt based on the jacket sizing."
My voice dropped to practically nothing, completely different from my usual confident persona.
Real fucking genius move there, Isabelle.
Jeremiah actually laughed, but it was bitter and sharp. "You're completely screwed."
He ran his hands through his hair, glancing back at his grandfather's hopeful expression.
"Oh my god, did I just create a massive disaster?" I asked, stealing nervous glances at him.
Jeremiah's dark eyes pinned me in place.
"My grandfather personally makes every piece of clothing I own. They all have my initials embroidered inside. You told him you were commissioning something for your boyfriend. What exactly do you think he concluded from that?"
He let out a heavy sigh.
"That explains why he asked me yesterday if someone had torn one of my shirts..."
The full magnitude of my fuck-up finally hit me like a freight train.
"Do you have any idea what's happening here tonight?" Jeremiah's expression was unreadable as he studied my face.
"What do you mean?" I was gripping my jacket so tightly my knuckles had gone white.
"It's my grandfather's 80th birthday celebration. Every single family member, family friend, and business associate is inside that house right now."
My legs nearly gave out. Rich family gatherings were like navigating a minefield—one wrong step and you'd become everyone's entertainment for the evening.
Jeremiah waited for my response, watching me have what was probably a very visible panic attack.
"What am I supposed to do?" My hands were literally shaking as the reality of the situation sank in. No wonder they hadn't asked for a deposit or taken additional measurements.
"The guest of honor personally came outside to welcome you. Everyone in there is probably waiting to meet the mysterious woman who finally captured my attention."
I stared up at him with pure terror in my eyes, silently screaming: Help me, save me, get me out of this nightmare...
"You have two choices," Jeremiah said, glancing back toward where Cleveland was pretending not to watch our entire conversation.
"Either walk in there with me and play the part, or march over there and explain to my 80-year-old grandfather that you're not actually dating his grandson."
If I ran away now, Jeremiah would become the evening's main source of gossip.
But if I tried to explain the truth... how the hell would I even begin to untangle this mess?