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Fadel had always hated Style.
It wasn't just the fact that Style was handsome, smart, and incredibly successful. No, it was the way he seemed to make everything seem effortless while Fadel had to fight tooth and nail for every ounce of his own success.
And in the world of billion-dollar conglomerates, where their fathers had built empires and their mothers constantly competed for dominance in society, Fadel and Style were more than just rivals—they were enemies.
Their fathers' companies clashed in boardrooms, their families were constantly one-upping each other in every social circle, and yet, they were never allowed to just be themselves. The expectations weighed down on them like chains, and they couldn’t escape the looming shadow of their family names.
Fadel could handle the pressure. He had learned to. But what he couldn't handle was Style.
So, when their group of rich-kid friends decided to throw them into a ridiculous bet—“Fake date and let’s see who cracks first”—Fadel rolled his eyes and scoffed.
At first, he was going to refuse. But something in the way Style’s eyes glinted as he casually leaned back in his chair and dared Fadel to take it on got under his skin.
"Sure," Fadel shot back, leaning in. "I’ll make him fall in love with me. No problem."
The group laughed. Some cheered. But all Fadel could see was Style’s self-assured grin. That smug, perfect grin that always made him want to punch something.
“I’ll take the bet.”
That was the moment Fadel sealed his fate.
The first week of their fake dating was surprisingly easy.
It was a performance. An act for the cameras. There were events to attend, public appearances to make, and social media to dominate. All they had to do was hold hands, smile, exchange a few words.
But as the days went on, something strange began to happen. Something Fadel couldn’t quite place.
Every time Style’s fingers brushed against his skin, every time their eyes locked a little too long, Fadel’s heart would race. He would have thought it was just part of the act—part of the game.
But then Style would laugh, that laugh that made Fadel want to pull him closer, and Fadel would find himself staring longer than he should.
It wasn’t supposed to be real. This was just a game.
But Style had this way of making everything feel too real.
The teasing got worse.
"Don’t you look cute when you’re jealous," Style would whisper in Fadel’s ear, fingers brushing Fadel’s arm whenever someone else flirted with him.
"Hold me like you mean it, sweetheart," Style would murmur when they were in front of friends, forcing Fadel’s hand to his waist, pulling him close.
And it was all a show.
Right?
One night, after a particularly heated dinner with their friends, Fadel found himself drunk in the back of a limo with Style. The evening had been full of champagne, teasing, and the endless pressure of their public roles, and now it was just the two of them, the atmosphere charged in the confined space.
“Why do you always push my buttons, Fadel?” Style asked, voice smooth as velvet, but there was something darker in his eyes.
Fadel didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
Instead, he found himself leaning closer. And before he knew it, Style’s lips were on his.
For a moment, Fadel wanted to pull away. He wanted to stop the madness. But then he realized he didn’t want to stop.
And he kissed back.
It was soft, hesitant at first. Then it grew fiercer, more demanding. The taste of Style, the scent of his cologne, the way their bodies fit together like puzzle pieces—it was all so undeniable.
When they pulled away, breathless, Fadel couldn’t bring himself to regret it.
But then Style laughed. A soft, mocking laugh.
“Well, well, well,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement, “you really did fall for me, didn’t you?”
Fadel’s heart sank. He hadn’t meant for this to happen. It was just supposed to be a game.
The next day, Fadel woke up alone in his penthouse. His phone was buzzing with messages, but he couldn’t focus on them. His head ached from the alcohol, and his thoughts were scattered, but one thing was clear—he had kissed Style.
But when he went to check himself in the mirror, that’s when he noticed it.
A set of hickeys covering his torso, his lower abdomen, and—Fadel froze—a few intimate spots.
His pulse quickened. He didn’t remember a thing from the night before, but those hickeys were unmistakable.
The realization hit him like a ton of bricks: Style had done this.
But why couldn’t he remember anything?
Fadel’s stomach churned. Was it just another game to Style?
Fadel became obsessed. He had to figure out if Style had done this on purpose. Had it all been part of some elaborate plan to get under his skin?
But when they were thrown together in a group project the following week, Fadel couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.
Style barely spoke to him, acting cold and distant. Every time Fadel tried to make eye contact, Style would look away, pretending he didn’t care.
The tension between them reached a boiling point when Style, out of nowhere, started staring and Fadel and made a joke with a guy who had attempted to flirt with Fadel that he was his boyfriend, but then again. He had been avoiding Fadel. He’d been cold and distant. So why the hell would he suddenly do that now?
Fadel marched up to him the next day, pulling him into a quiet corner of their campus. "What’s your game, Style?" he demanded, voice low. "Why the hell did you just tell him I'm your boyfriend?"
Style looked at him, an unreadable expression on his face. "What are you talking about?"
"I’m talking about this," Fadel growled, showing a post on the school's gossip page about those two dating and Style admitting to it.
It was as though something snapped in Style’s gaze.
The walls around him crumbled as he let out a small, frustrated sigh. “I wanted you to know, okay?” he murmured, voice uncharacteristically soft.
Fadel blinked, confused. “What?”
Style stepped closer, his eyes full of something raw, something Fadel hadn’t seen before. “I wanted you to know… that I’m not playing anymore.”
And then, finally, Style spoke the words that broke the dam: “I fell for you, Fadel. I didn’t mean to, but I did. And I can’t pretend it’s all a joke anymore.”
Fadel’s chest tightened, heart hammering in his chest. “You’re serious?”
Style nodded. "I’ve been serious since the first kiss."
And then, without any more words, Fadel closed the distance between them, claiming Style’s lips with the force of everything he’d been feeling.
It was no longer a game. It was no longer a bet.
It was real.