Fake Date, Real Fate-Chapter 129: The Afterlife Awaits

The car door shut with a soft, quiet click. Adrien rounded the front and slid into the driver’s seat.

I sat there, trying to gather the shredded remnants of my dignity.

My dress clung in folds, my hair felt like it had been through a wind tunnel, and I could still hear faint whispers from the speaker in my pocket like it was cursing me in post-production.

The engine purred to life.

"I hate you," I muttered.

"You say that a lot," Adrien said mildly, glancing over with a little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Still not convinced."

Silence.

"So. Should I be worried?"

"About?"

"You. Aria. Summoning spirits together. Plotting to sabotage innocent dates."

I raised an eyebrow. "Innocent?"

He let out a dramatic sigh. "Okay, mostly innocent."

I grinned. "I promise not to hex your next brunch."

"Good. Because if you show up at my next meeting in a veil, whispering about cursed contracts, I might marry you on the spot."

I choked on my own breath. "Excuse me?"

He just smiled, deadly calm. "You heard me."

"Adrien."

He shrugged, eyes twinkling. "What? You’ve already got the wardrobe."

"Adrien."

"Yes, future ghost of my heart?"

"I swear to God—"

But I was laughing now.

We drove in silence for a full minute before I turned to him, warily.

"Wait... where are we going?"

Adrien didn’t answer right away. His profile was calm, infuriatingly casual.

"Adrien," I said more firmly.

He glanced at me, one brow lifting. "My place."

I blinked. "Wait—what? No. We can’t just—Adrien, my stuff’s still inside. My heels. My bag. My—my soul."

His hands didn’t even twitch on the steering wheel. "Cameron will bring them."

"What?"

"I texted him."

"Texted him when?!"

"When you were yelling about being a spirit."

He glanced at me, completely unfazed. "You were busy."

"You planned this?"

"No. I adapted." He gave a little shrug, like it was no big deal.

I groaned and pressed my forehead to the window. "I hate everything."

There was a beat of silence.

Then, casually, he said, "I just thought I should personally dehaunt the spirit I caught. Make sure she crosses into the afterlife successfully."

I turned to stare at him. "What does that even mean?"

His mouth twitched. Just the corner.

"You were clearly cursed," he continued, far too seriously. "It’s only responsible of me to cleanse the energy. Escort you to peace."

"Peace," I repeated flatly.

He nodded once. "The other side awaits."

"And what’s the process? Holy water? Exorcism? Watching a exocist episode until I cry out the demon?"

"That comes after," he said, pulling into a long, winding driveway lined with trees.

I stared out the window. "Wait—how did we get here so fast?"

"You were distracted."

"I was spiraling."

"Same thing."

The iron gates ahead of us opened smoothly—automated, or maybe someone inside had seen us coming. As we drove through, the full silhouette of Adrien’s actual mansion came into view.

As if on cue, the front doors opened and Thomas appeared, standing primly with a polite, familiar bow. He wore white gloves and a neutral expression that said nothing could faze him—not even a barefoot woman in a haunted wedding gown.

Adrien stepped out and rounded the car. I made a move to open my door, but he beat me to it—of course he did.

I hesitated.

He arched a brow. "Don’t make me exorcise you out of the car."

"You’re so annoying," I muttered, but I placed my hand in his anyway.

"Terrifying," he said. "That’s what you meant to say. My terrifying ghost bride."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Don’t tempt me. I will haunt your shower and rearrange your most precious watches."

He laughed quietly, and the sound—warm and amused—sank under my skin like a welcome chill.

And then, in one smooth motion, he bent and swept me up into his arms again.

"Adrien!" I hissed, arms flying around his neck instinctively.

"Still processing the afterlife, I see," he said. "Relax. I’ve caught worse than you."

"Worse? Excuse me?"

"Demons. Board members. You name it."

I was too busy choking on indignation to fight back properly.

Thomas came to Adrien’s side and gave a dignified bow. "Sir." And nod at me. "Miss."

"Prepare a change of clothes for her," he said to Thomas without looking away from me. "Something soft."

"Of course."

The door opened before we reached it, and Thomas stepped. Adrien carried me through the cavernous, high-ceilinged foyer, past gleaming floors and warm, modern lighting, and then up the stairs without breaking stride.

I clutched his shirt, trying not to look like I was enjoying this more than I should.

"You’re really going all in on the ghost thing," I muttered.

He smirked. "You started it."

He pushed open his door with his shoulder and carried me into his bedroom.

He walked to the bed, paused, and looked down at me. His gaze had shifted. Warmer. Quieter.

Then he laid me gently onto the soft, cool sheets and leaned over me, bracing a hand beside my head.

Instead of teasing me right away, he crouched beside the bed, his brows pulling together as his eyes swept down my form.

"Give me your leg," he said quietly.

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

He didn’t repeat himself. Just reached for my ankle, gentle but firm, and lifted it into his lap. The fabric of my ruined gown slid up slightly as he cradled it carefully in both hands.

His thumb brushed the underside of my calf.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, his voice lower now, all teasing gone.

"A little," I admitted.

His thumb brushed over the delicate curve just above my ankle. Slow. Focused. His brows were slightly furrowed, the line between them drawn tight in thought.

I didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

It wasn’t just my leg he was touching—it was every last nerve in my body, apparently.

He started to knead it gently, his fingers warm and precise as they worked into the tense muscles. I could feel every stroke of his thumbs — slow, thoughtful, like he was smoothing the embarrassment out of my system one careful touch at a time.

"You ran barefoot through a restaurant," he said. "I’m impressed you didn’t break anything."

"My dignity is in pieces," I muttered.

"I’m talking about your bones."

"Well," I said, trying not to melt, "I’m sure the ghost possessing me had strong ankles."

His gaze flicked up to mine, one brow arching.

Then, without releasing my leg, he leaned in.

And then, with the tone of someone delivering a sacred rite, he said:

"So... are you ready to be freed and escorted to the afterlife?"

Something in his tone shifted—like he wasn’t talking about ghosts anymore.

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