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You know the exact moment Carter figures it out.
It’s not when you insist on him picking you up in front of your building instead of meeting at the bar like usual.
It’s not when you hand him your keys and say, “Drive mine tonight,” all casual, like you’ve actually let someone else touch your car before.
It’s not even when you tell him where to park — half a block away, right in front of a very specific restaurant with outdoor seating and very good lighting.
No, it’s when you step out of the car, smoothing your hands down the front of your outfit, and he catches the way you glance — just once — through the big plate glass window.
Carter follows your gaze.
There, at a corner table, head bent over a drink, is the man you haven’t mentioned by name but have absolutely bitched about in fragments. The one who “didn’t know what he wanted,” the one who kept you on a string and then acted surprised when you got tired of dangling.
Carter takes it all in: the way your shoulders go tight, the way your chin lifts, the way you deliberately turn away before your ex can look up and see you.
Interesting.
He says nothing. Just pockets the keys and offers his arm, like you haven’t just staged an ambush.
You hook your hand through the crook of his elbow. Both of you pretend this is normal.
The bar you picked is a hotel lounge — dim, expensive, full of soft leather and low conversation. The kind of place where deals are made and mistakes are born.
You slide onto a barstool, crossing your legs. Carter takes the one beside you, ordering for both of you without asking.
You let him.
Your eyes, however, are not on him.
They’re on the door.
Every time it swings open, you shift just a little. You smooth your skirt, fix your lipstick in the reflection of your phone, tilt your head to make your neck look better.
Carter watches you do it three times before he gets bored of pretending he doesn’t notice.
“You keep looking at the door, sweetheart,” he drawls, turning his glass in his fingers. “Planning an escape route, or waiting for someone to witness the show?”
You blink.
“What?”
He smiles, slow and amused. “Come on. Give me some credit. You haven’t looked at the menu once, which is a crime, because they make an excellent old fashioned here. But you have checked your reflection eight times and laughed a little too loud every time a man walks past.”
You glare at him, cheeks heating. “You’re imagining things.”
“Mm.” He tips his head, studying you. “Am I?”
As if on cue, the door opens again. A handful of new arrivals step in, the night air curling around their ankles.
Your gaze snaps over before you can stop it.
You go very still.
Carter follows your line of sight.
Your ex is here.
Of course he is. Carter’s not stupid; he decoded your whole plan somewhere between your building and the valet stand. But seeing it confirmed — the way your spine straightens, the way you suddenly lean in closer to Carter, fingers brushing his sleeve — is deeply, deeply satisfying.
“Oh,” he says softly. “So that’s what this is.”
You swallow.
“What what is?”
He turns fully on his stool, knee brushing your thigh, his voice dropping so only you can hear.
“You don’t want a drink,” he murmurs. “You want an audience.”
You flinch like he’s physically poked you. Your eyes dart to his. “That’s not—”
“Sweetheart.” He laughs, and it’s not unkind, just knowing. “You picked a bar two doors down from his regular spot, had me park your car where he’d see it, and you’ve been performing happy, moved-on-girl for the last twenty minutes. I may be a bastard, but I’m not oblivious.”
Your mouth opens. Closes.
“Did he screw you over that bad?” Carter asks, almost conversational. “Or are you just naturally this vengeful?”
Something in your face must give you away, because his expression shifts — not soft, exactly, but less sharp at the edges.
“A little of both,” you admit, staring into your drink. “He…ended things like I was an inconvenience. Said we wanted different things, then showed up with someone else on his arm two weeks later.” Your fingers tighten around the glass. “I’m not trying to win him back or anything. I just…want him to see I upgraded.”
Carter’s laugh is genuine this time, low and delighted. “Upgraded, hm?”
You finally look at him. Up close, under the warm bar lights, he’s all dark edges and expensive ease. Collar open, tie loose, wristwatch worth more than your car. A bored prince in exile.
“You are obnoxiously handsome,” you mutter. “It seemed like a good plan at the time.”
His smile turns wicked.
“I do love being weaponized.”
You roll your eyes.
“I’m using you. You’re allowed to be mad about it.”
“Oh, I know exactly what you’re doing,” he says. “You don’t want me. You just want your ex to see you with me.”
“Ouch.” You wince. “You didn’t have to say it out loud.”
He considers you for a long moment. Then his gaze shifts past your shoulder.
“Well,” he says lightly. “Showtime.”
You don’t have to look. You feel it. The weight of someone’s stare on your back, the way the air changes when old ghosts step into the room.
“He’s looking,” Carter murmurs. “Don’t freak out.”
“I’m trying,” you hiss.
“Relax.”
His hand finds your knee under the bar, warm and steady, thumb gliding lazily along the inside of your thigh — not high enough to be indecent, just enough to make your breath catch.
“Let me do what you brought me here to do.”
“Which is what, exactly?” you whisper.
He smirks.
“Be unforgettable.”
Before you can retort, he leans in.
From the outside, it must look effortless: the charismatic playboy dipping his head to murmur in his date’s ear, your mouth parting on a laugh, your hand curling over his wrist.
Inside, your pulse is a drumline. Your heart threatens to beat out of your chest as warmth flickers down your spine to settle in your core.
“Smile,” he murmurs, lips ghosting your jaw. “He’s almost at the bar.”
You do. It feels a little too wide, a little too sharp, but Carter’s presence grounds you. His hand at your knee, his cologne in your nose, his breath against your skin.
You don’t have to see your ex to know he’s there. You hear the hitch in his voice when he orders, the pause when the bartender asks, “You want to start a tab?”
“Go on,” Carter says softly. “Look.”
You do.
Your ex stands a few feet away, trying very hard not to stare. His eyes flick from your hand on Carter’s wrist to the hand on your leg to the way Carter is murmuring in your ear like you’re the only person in the room.
Jealousy looks ugly on him. Satisfaction tastes sweet on your tongue.
“Okay,” you breathe. “This was a good idea.”
“Obviously,” Carter says. “I agreed to it.”
You elbow him. He chuckles, then lifts his glass toward your ex in the barest hint of a toast before turning his attention fully back to you.
“Now,” he says. “You want to really sell it?”
You blink.
“We’re not already?”
He leans back an inch, studying you.
“Do you trust me?”
It’s a stupid question. It should be a stupid question. He’s Carter Baizen. You’d be an idiot to trust him.
You nod anyway.
“Good girl,” he says, and before you can process that, he’s tugging you off your stool and between his knees.
You land against him with a soft oof, hands splayed on his chest. He brackets your hips with his hands, looking up at you with a lazy, worshipful heat that makes your knees feel weak.
“Eyes on me,” he murmurs.
Your gaze flicks to his.
He kisses you.
It’s not soft. It’s not chaste. It’s possessive and showy and just this side of indecent, his mouth moving against yours with practiced confidence, one hand sliding up your spine to cradle the back of your neck.
Someone at the bar lets out a low whistle. Someone else mutters something under their breath.
You don’t care.
For a moment, there’s only the press of his mouth and the way he hums quietly when you kiss him back.
When he finally lets you breathe, your head is spinning. His thumb brushes your lower lip, eyes dark and amused.
“Think he got the message?” Carter asks.
You risk a glance.
Your ex looks wrecked. Angry. Small.
“Yeah,” you say, voice a little hoarse. “He got it.”
Carter’s smile turns satisfied. He settles you back on your stool, his hand lingering on your thigh.
“Good,” he says. “Because now I’m invested.”
You arch a brow.
“In what? Ruining his night?”
“In that,” he agrees. “And in proving a point.”
You tilt your head.
“What point?”
He clinks his glass lightly against yours.
“That he lost something he never really deserved,” he says. His gaze drops to your mouth, then back up. “And that I’m not nearly as fake a date as you thought I’d be.”
Your heart does a treacherous little flip.
“You’re having too much fun with this,” you mutter.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Carter purrs, leaning in again. “I haven’t even started.”