Chapter 2: The Prince and His Stand-In

Mason got the message. His fingers stilled, and his jaw tightened.

He suddenly slammed his wine glass on the table, raising his eyes to glare at me. The glass rang out, sharp in the silence.

His gaze was like a hungry wolf. That look—half predator, half lost boy.

But at the corners of his eyes, there was a startling redness. A flash of something raw and unguarded. It was there, and then it was gone.

After the party, Mason blocked the way, like he always did, standing right in front of me.

Jenna looked helpless and let him drive me home. She gave me that look—half apology, half encouragement—like she was pushing me out onto a stage. I wanted to groan. Thanks, Jenna.

In the night breeze, my head—fuzzy from a little too much champagne—finally cleared up a bit. The air was crisp, my skin tingling, city lights smearing into streaks.

Mason naturally opened the passenger door, gave me that look—get in, now.

I didn’t move.

He always said the front seat was for his wife.

Three years ago, that seat was mine. No questions asked.

Now? Emily was probably the only one with that privilege. I exhaled, feeling the weight settle in my chest.

He looked stubborn, unwilling to give up. I sighed, walked around, and took the back seat.

As we passed, Mason suddenly grabbed my wrist, his voice low and rough. His grip was warm, almost desperate.

He quickly added, "I’m the future head of the Whitmore family—opening the car door for someone is something people dream of, but you couldn’t care less."

He looked just like the cat we used to have—proud and awkward, baring its teeth and claws. I almost laughed.

When it accidentally scratched me, it never lowered its proud head. It would just cling to my pant leg, meowing, running circles, desperate for forgiveness.

I’d be angry and amused, give in and pick it up. Only then would it guiltily lick my hand, curling up in my arms.

Always barking. Never biting. Just like Mason.

I made up a random excuse: "I get carsick in the front seat." Lame. Even I didn’t buy it.

It was such a bad excuse.

So bad that Mason’s hand clenched into a fist, and he stared at me, hurt written all over his face.

I hardened my heart and pulled free from his grip. Don’t look back.

Not long after, Mason slammed the car door and started the engine. The slam echoed in the quiet street.

My favorite song came on.

It was my favorite song.

Caught. Looking in the rearview mirror, Mason’s face went red, then pale.

He cursed under his breath, hurriedly switched to the next song, and said, voice tight and defensive:

"It’s just the playlist, okay? Don’t read into it."

I smiled and didn’t call him out. Let him have it.

And the next one? Also mine.

"Don’t worry. I get it."

I found a comfortable spot in the backseat. "Besides, people change. Like that song just now—I’m not into it anymore."

He looked like he swallowed a lemon. Mason’s expression instantly became awkward.

He opened his mouth, but in the end, just drove off without a word. The silence between us stretched, heavy and unresolved.

The whole way, we were silent. The silence pressed in.

A heavy drowsiness settled over me. My eyelids grew heavy, thoughts drifting.

Since coming back, I’d been running nonstop between the studio and my agent’s office for three days.

Networking, contract meetings, mapping out my future—every single thing felt urgent.

I was exhausted.

So tired that even when I vaguely heard Mason calling me, I couldn’t muster the energy to respond.

After some rustling, a fresh, clean scent drifted over—something citrusy and familiar.

Mason sat beside me, reached out to feel my forehead. "Quinn, are you okay?" His hand was warm.