Chapter 8 I Know You Since Then

Ciara's POV

The conference room was colder than usual, and I wasn't sure if it was the air conditioning or the way Lysander's presence always managed to make things feel ten degrees chillier.

I sat stiffly beside him at the long glass table, my palms flat against the smooth surface, trying not to show the slight tremble in my fingers. My legs were crossed so tightly that my knee was starting to go numb. It was just a practice run. Just a mock interview.

Just... everything riding on this.

Across from us sat Margot, the immigration lawyer Lysander had hired. She was intimidating in a no-nonsense gray pantsuit and a sleek bun that didn't seem to have a single hair out of place. Her glasses glinted sharply under the ceiling lights as she clicked her pen and pulled out a thick clipboard.

"We'll run through the usual questions," she said in a tone that suggested she had seen a thousand fake couples before breakfast. "Answer naturally. Believably. If you hesitate or fumble, they'll pick it apart."

I swallowed hard.

Lysander, on the other hand, sat sprawled in his chair like he had all the time in the world, casually adjusting the cuffs of his button-down shirt, looking like he was about to negotiate a merger, not fake a marriage.

Margot cleared her throat. "Let's begin. How did you two meet?"

Lysander opened his mouth, but I got there first.

"I spilled coffee on him," I said flatly.

Margot's eyebrows lifted.

"And he almost fired me," I added.

There was a tiny pause.

"Romantic," Margot said dryly.

Lysander gave a slow shrug, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. "It was love at first... burn."

I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing. The bastard was enjoying this.

Margot scribbled something on her clipboard. "Describe your usual morning routine together."

This time, Lysander answered smoothly. "She hogs the bathroom."

"And he steals my hairbrush," I shot back before he could finish.

"That was once."

"Twice," I said with a sweet smile.

Margot gave a small, almost-imperceptible chuckle. I wasn't sure if that was a good sign or a bad one.

"What side of the bed does your partner sleep on?"

"Right," we both said at the same time.

Lysander turned his head slightly to look at me, the tiniest twitch of a smile on his lips.

Margot continued writing. "Favorite food of your spouse?"

"Pork stew," I said without hesitation.

"Fresh strawberry tarts," Lysander answered immediately.

I blinked at him.

"You eat them when you're stressed," he said, his voice quieter now, more sincere. "You chew the crust first and save the middle for last."

Something warm and disorienting bloomed in my chest. For a moment, I forgot about Margot, the fake marriage, the impending deportation-everything. Lysander wasn't supposed to notice things like that.

Margot glanced at both of us, her pen hovering. "Tattoos or body markings?"

Before I could even think, Lysander answered smoothly, "She has a small red mole. Right side. Private area."

I choked on air. My face burned.

"Lysander!" I hissed.

He raised an eyebrow, unbothered. "It's a legal question."

"You didn't have to describe it like-like a goddamn tourist attraction!"

"Is it inaccurate?"

I wanted to launch the clipboard at his smug, perfect face. Margot simply nodded and kept writing.

"Your turn, Ciara," she said, not even blinking.

I clutched the hem of my skirt, inhaled sharply, and said, "Lysander has a scar on his left wrist. Skateboarding accident when he was twelve. He tells people it's from fencing, but it was from falling onto a soda can."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lysander stiffen slightly.

Margot looked intrigued. "Fascinating."

Lysander looked at me then, a slow, assessing gaze that made my skin prickle.

"How did you know that?" he asked, his voice deceptively casual.

"I pay attention," I said smugly.

He didn't smile. But something flickered in his eyes. Something dangerous.

Margot glanced at the clock. "One last question. Describe the most romantic thing your partner has done."

I hesitated. Romantic?

I tried to think. There weren't candlelit dinners or midnight serenades. There was only... Lysander, in his gruff, unsentimental way.

"He bought me clothes," I said carefully. "When I didn't have anything else to wear."

Lysander didn't miss a beat. "She looked stunning in them."

His voice was so serious, so direct, that for a moment I forgot to breathe. The air between us stretched tight like a pulled string.

I am choking, what the hell!

Margot clicked her pen closed. "That's it for today. You two have better chemistry than some real couples I've seen. If you perform like this during the real interview, you'll pass."

She packed her things, leaving the room with the efficiency of someone used to cleaning up emotional wreckage.

When the door shut, I finally let out the breath I was holding.

"Well," I muttered, standing and brushing imaginary dust from my skirt, "that was... less horrifying than expected."

Lysander didn't move. He just watched me with that same unreadable expression.

I grabbed my things, ready to bolt, but his voice stopped me.

"Ciara."

I turned, wary.

He tilted his head, studying me. "You knew all of that. About me."

I shrugged. "You're my boss. You're in magazines, interviews, television. It's not exactly classified information."

"That scar isn't in any interview," he said quietly.

I froze.

"And my favorite food?" he continued. "That isn't public knowledge either."

My mouth opened-and then closed. Crap.

Lysander stood slowly, the sheer height of him making me feel boxed in. His blue eyes darkened, shadows playing across his face.

"You weren't just studying for immigration questions, were you?" he said, his voice a low rumble. "You've been paying attention to me for a long time, haven't you, little fox?"

Little fox.

I should have bristled. Instead, heat curled in my stomach.

"I had to," I said defensively, lifting my chin. "You're... you're Lysander Eryx. You notice things about the people who rule your life."

His gaze dropped to my mouth for a split second. When he looked back up, something dangerous glinted in his eyes.

"Good," he said, voice deep. "Keep paying attention, Mrs. Eryx."

The way he said it-Mrs. Eryx-sent a full-body shiver down my spine.

I scowled, shoving my bag onto my shoulder. "Don't get cocky."

"Too late," he murmured, following me toward the door.

God help me, if the fake marriage didn't kill me first, Lysander Eryx just might.