BEATRICE'S POV
"Be mine."
He says it again. Firmer. Clearer. Like repetition alone should be enough to change my answer.
The bus rattles beneath us. Someone coughs two rows back. The world keeps moving, completely unaware that Theodore Schweitzer just proposed to a woman on public transit like it's a perfectly normal thing to do on a Tuesday evening.
My brain takes a full three seconds to reboot.
"Mmm... no?"
He stills.
Was he expecting me to just accept? Because he's handsome, wealthy, and smells like something a French perfumer spent three years designing? I'm not that easy. And even if I randomly decided to date or marry on a whim, it would never be someone from the upper class. Never one of the men from the five families.
Never.
"You're rejecting me."
I nod.
Theodore clicks his tongue and leans back, pulling his hood over his head, arms crossing like he's been presented with a universal mystery that requires his utmost intellectual attention.
"Is that because you work for that bastard?"
Both of them call the other one bastard. Who's the real bastard?
Both. Definitely both.
I keep my expression bored. Tired from work. "No."
He looks down at me. Hard to guess what he's thinking — other than a slight crease between his eyebrows, there's nothing. No irritation. No wounded pride. Just... processing.
"Then why would you reject me? I don't think you've ever been approached by someone more handsome than me." A pause. "I'm fairly well off too, so you won't have to worry about ending up with someone ugly and broke."
My mouth falls open.
He's right — he is the most handsome man who's ever approached me. But did he just imply I'm not good enough to attract other handsome men?
I sit up straight, eyes blazing. "I am not interested."
He blinks, looking down at me. This man is even taller than Adrien. I clench my jaw. Theodore's gaze drops from my eyes to my lips for a fraction of a second, and something in my chest tightens under the weight of it — an intensity that makes me feel like every mask I've ever built is made of glass.
"Beatrice." His voice drops. "You're a smart woman. And I need a smart, grounded, stubborn woman beside me as my wife before October this year."
Smart — yes.
Grounded — obviously.
But stubborn?
My palm itches to slap him across that absurdly handsome face. "You're calling me stubborn?"
He nods. Studies my hand. "You look like you want to slap me."
I scoff, managing my breathing through sheer force of will.
"That's cute."
I pause. Look up at him in disbelief. His expression hasn't changed. Not even slightly.
"I'll call this harassment."
"I haven't made a single crude comment."
"You asked me to be yours." I jab back.
"I asked you to be my wife, to be specific." He corrects me like the distinction matters.
I turn to face him fully, tilting my head up. "And I'm saying it again — I am not interested in you."
He blinks. Processes. Looks back at me like I've presented a genuinely fascinating counterargument.
"So you won't marry me because you're not interested in me?"
I nod, crossing my arms. "And more importantly, I don't even know you."
"Then know me."
"I'm not interested."
Theodore Schweitzer is supposed to be a cold-hearted monster who killed his father and three half-brothers a decade ago to become the patriarch of the Schweitzer Banking Dynasty.
Yet sitting next to me on a city bus, dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants, he doesn't look like a thirty-two-year-old running a multigenerational empire. He looks like a man who has been told "no" for possibly the first time in his adult life and is genuinely unsure how to proceed.
He blinks slowly. Looks away from my face. Nods once.
"I'm boring. I can't deny that."
I'm sorry — what?
He's decided I'm rejecting him because he's boring.
The bus stops at my destination. He looks at me. "I'll walk you home."
I frown. "What makes you think I'd let you know my address?"
"I already know."
Before I can fire back, he stands — tall, straight, unhurried. "Your employee profile at Laurent Corporation has your entire biodata."
My shoulders drop. This man is persistent like gum on a shoe sole. Of course he has means to find my address. Of course.
We step off the bus and he falls into place behind me. Hood covering his forehead, hair pushed down to his brows, hands tucked in his pockets. Following two steps back like a shadow with a cologne budget.
"Can you stop doing that?" I turn my head.
He blinks. "I haven't said anything."
"But you're this tall, muscular, hood-up figure attracting every eye on the street. We look like we're about to rob something." I throw my hands in the air. I don't know if it's the hoodie or something I can't explain, but the contrast between who he is and how he looks right now is almost disorienting. Extraordinarily ordinary.
Theodore opens his mouth slightly, then pulls the hood off. Ruffles his dark blonde hair. The streetlight catches the strands, warm against the night air.
"Better?"
I nod.
We walk. He keeps his word — doesn't say a single thing. But I feel the weight of his gaze on the back of my neck the entire way, steady and unhurried, like a man who has already decided to be patient and is simply practising.
We stop under my apartment building.
"Beatrice." His voice is quiet. "What would I have to do for you to become my wife?"
I scream internally. There are hundreds of heiresses, socialites, and actual princesses who would collapse at the chance to even have dinner with this man.
I turn my head slightly. "Why me?"
He doesn't flinch. No awkwardness. No shame.
"Because you don't strike me as someone who would take my bullshit and go along with whatever I say." His eyes soften — so faintly that if I weren't standing this close, I would have missed it entirely. A breeze catches his hair, and for a single unguarded second, he looks almost boyish.
"And because I fell for you at first sight. Yesterday. When you were running down that hallway barefoot with your heels in your hand, eyes blazing with determination while everyone else around you was falling apart."
My head buzzes.
He what?
Someone honks their car and I snap back. He fell for me at first sight — while I was running barefoot through kerosene fumes in a ruined dress.
No. This is a play. He wants me to trust him so I'll feed him information about Laurent Corporation's plans and strategies. That's what this is. That's all this can be.
I harden my expression. Chin up. "I'm not interested in being your wife, Mr. Schweitzer. I've known you for less than a day."
"Then take time."
"Still a no."
Theodore presses his lips together. Looks down for a moment. Gives me a nod.
Relief floods through my chest.
Too soon.
"I'll pursue you for the next six months. If you still say no after that, I'll walk away. And I'll compensate you for your time."
My eyes widen. He gives me a small, courteous nod — the kind that belongs in a nineteenth-century drawing room, not on a sidewalk in Manhattan.
Across the street, a white Rolls-Royce Phantom sits waiting. A man in a black suit steps out. Theodore glances at him once, and the man bows his head slightly before walking toward us carrying a white paper bag.
Theodore takes the bag. The man retreats instantly.
He pulls out a white cashmere scarf — gorgeous, impossibly soft even from a distance — and wraps it around my neck. Gently. Carefully. Like he's handling something he already considers precious.
My breathing hitches as his fingers brush the side of my throat.
"It's not a very gentlemanly thing to pursue a woman without offering something in return. It's nothing extravagant, but I hope you'll give me six months." His voice is low. Close. "Beatrice."
He lowers himself to my eye level. His gaze is gentler than anything I've seen from him — hands still resting lightly over the scarf, which is too soft and too warm and smells faintly of his cologne.
"May I have your permission?"
I shake my head.
His lips twitch. Barely visible — and only because I'm watching too closely. Not irritation. Something else. The look of a man staring at a wild thing he's decided to earn rather than cage.
"Still. I will pursue you." He straightens. "Sleep well. I'll see you around."
He pats my head.
Then he turns and walks away. I watch him fold himself into the Rolls-Royce, one final glance through the window before the car pulls into the dark.
I finally let out the breath I've been holding since the bus.
My hands are shaking.
Am I scared? Excited? Furious? I have no idea. Because this scarf around my neck and the man who put it there — nothing about any of this is normal.
And I have a terrible, sinking feeling that "normal" just left my life for good.