Ava stared murderously at "La Vie en Pork" from inside her black van — the tackiest, most pretentious French-Filipino fusion restaurant in the entire city. The neon pink sign flickered above the door, the curly cursive font trying and failing to look elegant while a cartoon pig in a beret winked seductively underneath.
The place screamed "Instagram influencer trap" — the kind of restaurant where the food portions were smaller than a toddler's palm, but the bill could make your ancestors cry in the afterlife.
Beside her, Adelle was furiously scribbling in her notebook again — because apparently, no life-or-death situation could stop that woman from writing her memoir like she was Anne Frank.
"M-My lady..." Adelle's voice trembled like a soldier about to send her general to war. "There is still time to run. We can drive away, fake your death, move to the mountains, and raise goats... goats don't know scandals."
Ava swatted the air between them like she was shooing away a fly. "Hush, Adelle. I'm still reading the restaurant name because it sounds like another Eva scheme."
Her suspicious gaze narrowed at the neon sign again. "La Vie en Pork."
She squinted harder, then leaned forward as if the letters would rearrange themselves into a hidden message.
"La Vie en... what?" She paused. "La Vie en Fraud? La Vie en Blackmail? La Vie en 'My Bitch Sister Set Me Up Again'?"
Adelle's pen stilled. "Maybe the owner just... likes pork, my lady?"
Ava snapped her head around, eyes wide with betrayal. "Don't defend the enemy, Adelle. That's exactly what Eva would want you to think."
Adelle's soul almost left her body.
Ava leaned back, arms crossed like a mafia boss about to order a hit.
"Look at this place." She motioned dramatically at the floor-to-ceiling glass windows where couples were sipping overpriced wine under dim lighting that was probably meant to be romantic but just looked like they couldn't afford proper electricity.
"If this isn't one of Eva's traps, then why does the pig on the sign look like it's laughing at me?"
Adelle glanced at the sign. The pig was laughing.
"Maybe because it's... happy?" she offered weakly.
Ava's glare sharpened. "Happy for what? The downfall of my dignity?"
Adelle went back to scribbling. Probably writing her resignation letter.
Ava exhaled, checking her phone. No missed calls. No messages from Zach Ford, the Basement Dweller. Only one text from Zeke saying:
Can'twaittoseeyou,sugar🍷💋
Ava's eye twitched so hard she almost detached her own retina.
"That maggot!"
She shoved the phone into Adelle's hands. "Block him."
Adelle blinked. "My lady, you already blocked seven of his numbers."
"Then block his whole existence— after I get his brother's number, of course!"
Adelle calmly opened her notebook and scribbled something down — probably a step-by-step guide on how to curse a man without leaving evidence.
Ava checked her reflection in the mirror — flawless makeup, power blazer, heels sharp enough to stab a man — but somehow, none of it made her feel prepared to meet that worm in human clothing.
"Adelle."
"Yes, my lady?"
"If I don't come out in an hour... burn this place to the ground."
Adelle clutched her notebook to her chest. "With pleasure, my lady."
Ava swung the van door open with the grace of a queen stepping out of her royal carriage — or at least, that's how she imagined she looked.
In reality, the moment her black Louboutin heels hit the pavement, every single person within a five-meter radius scrambled away like roaches under a spotlight.
One waiter carrying a tray of breadsticks dropped the entire basket and made a run for it like he'd seen the ghost of his grandmother. A group of women taking selfies outside the restaurant squealed and scattered, clutching their designer bags as if Ava had just announced she was part of a kidnapping syndicate.
Even the security guard standing by the entrance subtly reached for his walkie-talkie — probably preparing to call for backup or the entire SWAT team.
Ava grimaced.
Adelle peeked out from the van window, whispering like the snitch she was. "M-My lady... I think they think you're... you know... one of those... syndicate agents."
Ava whirled around, offended to her very soul.
"What?! Just because I'm stepping out of a black van wearing sunglasses and all black?"
Adelle blinked. "And because the van has no plate number... and because I look like your hostage."
Ava's lips thinned, heels clicking against the pavement like the countdown to someone's inevitable death.
"Fair point." She sighed through gritted teeth. The idea of being mistaken for a kidnapper was still less humiliating than whatever mess she was walking into — an obvious trap orchestrated by Zeke the Not-So-Mighty Ford, a man whose only talent was turning oxygen into absolute nonsense.
The glass door of La Vie en Pork automatically slid open, revealing the dimly lit interior — all velvet curtains, flickering chandeliers, and overpriced aesthetic suffering.
The second her heels crossed the threshold, the entire restaurant plunged into darkness.
Ava froze.
Oh, hell no.
Somewhere in the shadows, a violin started playing — slow, haunting, as if the musician was personally apologizing to the world for what was about to happen. Then a piano joined in, keys pressing with the kind of unnecessary drama that only belonged in soap operas and badly edited proposal videos on YouTube.
Ava blinked at the sudden blackout, clutching her bag tighter like it was her emotional support weapon. Her brain was already calculating how many health code violations she could report to shut this place down.
Then, out of the darkness—
A single spotlight beamed down on the center of the restaurant.
And there he was.
Zeke Ford.
Standing like the discount Casanova he always believed himself to be.
His black dress shirt was unbuttoned just low enough to look inappropriate for a Tuesday night. His dark, beautiful hair was styled in that intentionally messy way that made him look like he'd just rolled out of bed after making questionable life choices. His stupid jawline was sharp enough to cut the tension in the room — if it weren't already being butchered by his smug little smirk.
In his hand was the final insult —
A bouquet of wilted roses wrapped in what looked like recycled plastic from a grocery bag.
"Ah, sugar." His voice echoed through the restaurant like he was some low-budget villain in a telenovela. "I knew you'd come."
Ava's soul physically left her body.
From behind her, she heard Adelle whisper:
"Oh, my lady... I think we're in a Wattpad story."
Ava almost turned around to choke her assistant.
But she couldn't afford murder charges.
Not yet.
The restaurant staff stood frozen by the walls, clearly paid actors in Zeke's little production. Some customers even pulled out their phones, filming like this was the plot twist of a cheap reality show called Desperate Women and the Men They Should Have Left on Read.
Ava's fingers twitched by her side — itching to grab the nearest wine glass and hurl it straight at Zeke's perfect little hairline.
Zeke dramatically extended the wilted bouquet like he was presenting the cursed apple to Snow White.
"For you, sugar."
Ava didn't move.
Not even a blink.
In fact, she was 99.9% sure her own soul just texted her brain:
"I'm clocking out. Good luck, sis."
The violin music swelled as if the orchestra was playing at her funeral.
Ava's smile wavered — not out of politeness, but out of sheer willpower not to commit a felony in front of so many witnesses. Her fingers twitched as she snatched the wilted bouquet from Zeke's hands like she was about to file it as Exhibit A in his upcoming homicide trial.
The rotting scent of the flowers immediately punched her nostrils.
Ava's nose scrunched so hard she almost rearranged her entire bone structure.
"Are the Fords going bankrupt... or did you rob a cemetery on your way here?"
Zeke's smile widened, the kind of smile only a man with negative shame and a family lawyer on speed dial could pull off.
"Oh, sugar... I actually spent all my allowance for this little surprise." He batted his annoyingly beautiful lashes like some Disney princess trapped in the body of a walking red flag. "My parents froze my accounts for some questionable reasons."
Ava's eyes narrowed.
"It's because you spent your family fortune on women, you horny swine."
Zeke dramatically clutched his well-sculpted, suspiciously muscular chest like he'd been personally victimized.
"Aww... how can your insults be a sound to my ear, sugar?"
"Because you're a masochist, you pig," Ava muttered.
Zeke smirked wider — because of course, the bastard heard that. "Only when it's you, darling."
Ava's grip on the bouquet tightened.
One more word. Just one more word and she was going to beat him to death with his own funeral flowers.
But then —
The spotlight flickered dramatically, the violin playing a little louder like they were scoring her inner struggle between committing a crime or letting the law handle this walking STD in human form.
Zeke held out his arm like some twisted gentleman straight out of a rom-com that belonged in the garbage.
Ava's brain whispered, "Don't do it."
Her pride screamed, "Absolutely not."
Her traitorous hormones, however, took one look at Zeke's perfectly messy hair, sinful smirk, and that criminally tight black shirt clinging onto muscles that had no business existing on a man so useless—
And whispered, "Maybe prison isn't so bad."
Ava's lips pursed, mentally writing down all the saints she needed to pray to for forgiveness later— because if she has to be honest, Zeke truly is a beautiful man with unholy habits.
Without saying a word, she slid her hand onto Zeke's arm — hating every second of how warm and annoyingly solid he felt under her palm.
Zeke pulled the seat for her like the bare-minimum gentleman menace he was, flashing a smile that could make even a nun question her life choices.
Ava sat down and the moment the unholy swine sat across from her, a waiter materialized beside their table, holding a leather-bound notebook like he was about to take orders for the devil himself.
"Good evening, Lord Zeke Ford and Lady Eva Summers—"
Ava choked. "Eva who?"
Zeke's long lashes fluttered innocently — a dangerous sign that meant he was either about to lie... or say something so outrageously stupid that Ava would need to Google if premeditated murder still counted as a crime in this country.
"Ahh yeah." He snapped his fingers like the waiter had just jogged his memory. "This is indeed Eva Summers. My darling fiancée."
Ava heaved a deep sigh. That's right, she can't argue with that since Eva was the one engaged to Zeke. If she introduce herself as Ava, it would cause another internet stir again and AVA Inc. will have another bad reputation.
Ava can't afford any of that.
After the waiter took their orders — which, frankly, Ava had no clue what since Zeke took the liberty of ordering everything without even glancing her way — she leaned forward, planting both hands on the table with purpose.
"Now, about Zach's number—"
"Let's eat first," Zeke cut her off with a lazy smile.
For a split second, Ava swore something flickered behind his eyes — sharper, calmer... less idiotic. But it was gone before she could process it, leaving behind the same grinning fool who once tried to convince her peanut butter could cure heartbreak.
She blinked the thought away. Must be the hunger messing with her head.
"Fine," she muttered, crossing her arms. "But make it quick. I need to sleep early tonight to avoid wrinkles—"
"Oh, sugar," Zeke cooed, eyes twinkling. "Even if your face is covered with wrinkles, I'd still lo—afkkk—"
Ava calmly stuffed a wad of tissue into his mouth mid-sentence, pushing it in with two fingers like she was cleaning out a gun barrel.
"Chew that and die quietly."
Zeke gagged, choking out muffled noises while Ava leaned back, sipping her water.
Just when Ava thought he'd finally choke to death — a national tragedy, truly — Zeke casually spat the tissue paper out like a piece of overchewed gum, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then proceeded to ogle her.
"And how about we land in my condo after?" he batted his lashes, voice dipped in honeyed sleaze. "I have a king-sized bed... but for you, sugar, I'll gladly sleep on the floor — as long as you step on me first."
Ava's lips curled into the sweetest smile.
"Sure," she leaned in, voice soft as silk. "If you let me use your fingernails as my exclusive earrings."
Zeke's smile stiffened.
For a moment, they just stared at each other — him blinking rapidly, processing his own funeral arrangements, while Ava grinned.
Then Zeke leaned back, lips twitching.
"Kinky."
Ava's lips twitched. This man had no sense of self-preservation.
Truly, they only had a fine dinner — if "fine" meant eating microscopic portions that looked like modern art rejects on overpriced plates. The kind of meal where the chef probably whispered motivational quotes to the asparagus before serving it.
The food barely filled the size of a toddler's palm — combined — but the bill came out at a majestic $499.99 like they had just dined on unicorn meat sprinkled with moon dust.
Zeke stared at the receipt, his fingers trembling.
"W-What are these numbers? Is this the zip code?" he croaked, eyes flicking between the bill and the sad little smear of sauce left on his plate — a $99 smear, apparently.
Ava leaned back, unfazed, dabbing her lips with a napkin like a queen who had just feasted on a whole roasted dragon.
"You ordered everything, didn't you?"
"I thought those were just... sample sizes! For... demonstration purposes!" Zeke's voice cracked.
Ava flicked him a lazy glance. "Welcome to fine dining, sugar."
Zeke clutched his chest like he'd been shot — then glanced at the waiter circling nearby.
"Do you guys... have installment plans?"
"Do you want 50/50 or what?" Ava asked, tilting her head like the strong, independent woman™ she was. "I can even pay for everything... if you're planning to sell your kidney in the parking lot later."
"Oh, no," Zeke shot up, hand raised dramatically. "I was simply negotiating. My accounts might have been... temporarily frozen — due to unforeseen circumstances involving the IRS — but I am not broke."
Ava's brow twitched.
Temporarily frozen, huh? The way he said it made her picture him trying to bribe the bank teller with expired coupons.
Zeke cleared his throat and pulled out a wallet so bulky and ancient, Ava was half-expecting him to pull out a family photo from the Great Depression.
He started counting small dollar bills and loose coins on the table — quarters, dimes, a suspiciously folded Chuck E. Cheese token — all while mumbling numbers under his breath like a man calculating his own downfall.
Ava leaned on her palm, watching him with the kind of pity reserved for stray dogs.
"Would you like me to call the waiter... or the nearest charity organization?"
Zeke didn't even blink.
"I got this, sugar. Just give me... like... twenty-seven minutes."