The CEO's Contractual Wife

Chapter 199

Olivia

“You’re quiet,” Alexander observed, watching me with those perceptive eyes that always seemed to see too

much.

“Just enjoying my fish,” I lied, stabbing at the golden batter with more force than necessary.

“Liv.”

“What?”

“You’re massacring your dinner.”

I looked down at my plate, where I’d reduced the perfectly crispy fish to shreds. “I’m just hungry.”

Alexander reached across the table, his hand covering mine. “She means nothing to me. That night was years ago and completely forgettable.”

“Didn’t seem forgettable to her,” I muttered, then immediately regretted it. I sounded petty and jealous, which was ridiculous because we had an arrangement. A business deal. His past hookups were none of my concern.

“Sophie has always had trouble accepting that not everyone falls at her feet,” Alexander said dryly. “Her husband is evidence of that. She collected him like a trophy and treats him like furniture.”

“She’s married and still throws herself at other men?” I asked, genuinely appalled.

“Some people view marriage as a social status rather than a commitment.”

Unlike us, I wanted to say. We’re doing this for business reasons but at least we’re honest about it. Except I couldn’t say that out loud in a crowded pub where anyone might overhear.

“Eat,” Alexander urged, gesturing to my demolished fish. “Before you reduce it to paste.”

I managed a small smile and took an actual bite this time. The fish was delicious, crispy on the outside and flaky on the inside, exactly as he’d promised. But the encounter with Sophie had soured my appetite.

We finished our meal in relative silence, the easy banter from earlier replaced by something heavier. Alexander kept glancing at me like he wanted to say something, but thought better of it. When the waitress brought the check, he paid quickly and stood.

“Come on,” he said, offering his hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

Outside, the evening air had cooled considerably. I wrapped my arms around myself, wishing I’d brought a warmer jacket.

out of his suit jacket and draped it over my shoulders before I could protest. The fabric carried his warmth and

I murmured, pulling it tighter

streets of London were alive with evening activity. People spilled out of pubs and restaurants, their laughter echoing off the historic buildings. Street performers played music on corners, and

I asked after several

“Just walking.

I said quickly. “Walking is

hand found mine,

architecture more ornate. Gas lamps lined

city is beautiful,” I said, breaking the silence. “Different

“Every building has a story. Some of these

centuries.”

“Tell me one.”

“One what?”

story. About one

considering the structures around us. “See that one?” He pointed to a narrow townhouse with ivy climbing its brick

“Really?”

with a grin. “I have no

lingering bad mood. “You’re

“I prefer creative.”

stories about each one. A bakery became the site of a Victorian bread riot. A bookshop was supposedly haunted by the ghost of a disappointed romance novelist. Each tale was more absurd than the last, and by the

pleased with himself. “That’s

“What is?”

been missing since the

the

wasn’t that bad,” I protested

to stab Sophie with your

“I was not!”

that look in your eyes. The

have a violence

do. It’s

making him

his voice

stomach clenched. “I’m

“Then what are you?”

wasn’t entirely a lie. “She

“But that’s not what