~Yvette's pov ~

“Aunt Anna, this is all your fault,” I said, slapping my temples. My blind date was sitting at the far end, waiting for me like he was the Grim Reaper — calm, still, and just as unnerving.

I didn’t need a seer to tell me this date would be a disaster waiting to happen. The place looked so fancy it probably had a secret rule that you needed a Lamborghini parked outside before you could walk in. The chandeliers above us glittered like frozen stars, and the air felt heavy — too heavy, like it carried the burden of thousands of souls.

The scent of truffle oil mingled with something colder, metallic, and strange. My chest tightened. It wasn’t perfume or wine — it was faint, almost hidden — but it made the back of my neck prickle.

The lighting gave everything the dreamy glow of a romantic drama, which I hated. I preferred real life messy and imperfect, not cinematic and staged.

Then I saw him.

Joachim Knight. Cold-hearted, popular billionaire lawyer in Manhattan—and supposedly, my blind date for the evening. My stomach twisted. Of all the people my family could have set me up with, it had to be him—the same man whose pictures I’d been secretly taking and selling online.

Yes, I was the Woodsman, the secret paparazzo with a knack for taking celebrities’ photos at the most unexpected moments.

He sat at the table in an impeccably tailored charcoal-black suit, boredom written across his face. The fabric seemed to drink in the light instead of reflecting it.

“You’re late,” he said. His voice wasn’t just cold, it was unnaturally still, carrying an absence of warmth so profound it felt ancient.

For a moment, the sound of his voice made the candles flicker. I blinked. Probably just my imagination.

I rolled my eyes. “Sorry, Your Majesty.”

He raised an unimpressed eyebrow, his gaze sweeping over me. His sharp blue eyes held mine a second too long. I felt like I was standing too close to an open flame. Or to the devil himself.

I couldn’t blame him. I was wearing a “borrowed” dress from Aunt Anna. I didn’t know where she bought her dresses from, but I looked like an eighteenth-century time traveler.

I sat down across from him, my heart pounding. It wasn’t because he was handsome or popular—far from it. My heart was hammering because I was about to spend an entire evening with the man I’d been stalking and selling pictures of.

How was I supposed to pretend I didn’t know exactly who he was?

The waiter arrived, glancing from me to Joachim and back again. I wasn’t quite sure if he was trying to figure out whether we’d both wandered into the wrong place.

“Good evening, sir, ma’am,” the waiter said nervously, picking up on the tension. “May I take your orders?”

Joachim didn’t even look up from his phone, his jaw tight. His hands were elegant and pale — the kind of pale that didn’t come from lack of sunlight but something else entirely.

I bit my lower lip, tapping my fingers nervously against the table. The silence stretched on longer than I wanted to admit.

Eventually, he set his phone down long enough to glance at the menu. “I’ll have the steak,” he said flatly, without even asking what I wanted.

I turned to the waiter. “I think French fries—”

He cut me off with a snort, making the waiter jump.

“French what?” he asked, staring at me as if I’d just ordered a plate of deep-fried cockroaches. “If you wanted French fries, why did we come here?” He began scrolling through his phone again. “Seems Coq au Vin is a joke to you.”

He had embarrassed me in front of the waiter, and I was sure that if I ever came back here—if there would even be a next time—the waiter would never take me seriously.

“Mind your business,” I muttered.

He didn’t respond, and I turned back to the waiter, suddenly losing my appetite. “Just get me anything.”

Joachim chuckled quietly, and I swear the temperature in the room dropped five degrees.

It wasn’t my imagination this time. Even the candle flames stilled, as though the air itself had frozen around him.

I bit my lip, trying to suppress the urge to snap at him, but before I could, the waiter returned, looking like he was about to step into a boxing ring.

“Has anyone decided?” he asked, glancing nervously between us.

I glanced at Joachim, then back at the waiter. “We’ll both have the steak,” I said curtly, realizing neither of us was going to get what we actually wanted.

Joachim looked like he wanted to say something—probably another snarky comment about my “low norms”—but the waiter gave a relieved nod and hurried away.

Silence settled again, thick and awkward. I hated every second of it.

I cleared my throat, trying to break it. “So, any big cases recently? Or is it all just ‘counsel stuff’ to you?”

Joachim didn’t even look up. “I don’t talk about work on dates.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I thought they might hit each other. “Arrogant frog,” I muttered under my breath, and I knew he heard me.

He finally looked up, his expression unreadable. “Can you just stop talking? It’s called a blind date for a reason.”

I narrowed my eyes and shook my head. Of all the dates I’d ever been on, this one was the worst. It already felt like I was in hell.

We sat in silence again until the waiter returned with our food. The steak looked fine—not that I cared. I wasn’t here for the food; I was here because I was supposed to enjoy the New Year celebration like every normal person. Instead, I was stuck at 7:00 p.m. with the perfect devil for the rest of the evening.

Just as he lifted his wine glass, he froze. His gaze met mine, hard and sharp. Something flickered in his pupils — not reflection, not light. Something red. He stared at me like he could hear my heartbeat or even my thoughts.

“I should have known,” he said, staring at me as if I’d stolen his wallet. Or his soul.

My fork clattered onto the plate, and my stomach dropped. He recognized me?

“It’s you. Good gracious.”

“It’s not what you think,” I blurted out. “I’m not that kind of person. I’m a celebrity agent, you know—working with actors. And this date thing? It was completely my aunt’s idea.”

I was rambling. The words spilled out faster than I could stop them, but I couldn’t help it. I was dead broke, and getting into another scandal wasn’t on my to-do list.

I wanted to leave—no, to escape—before he said anything else.

But as I grabbed my bag to make a quick exit, I realized something that made me pause.

Joachim was staring at me. No words, no expression, just that piercing gaze.

He gave a curt nod toward the phone he’d slid across the table. A silent command: Take it.

I hesitated before picking it up with shaky hands. My breath hitched when I saw the screen—a video.

There, on a gossip blog, was a clip of me in a heated argument with none other than Tessa Miller, the popular actress from that blockbuster action film everyone had been obsessed with last summer.

My face burned as the memory hit. She had been rude, making snide remarks about my looks. And I, being the professional that I am, snapped back. We exchanged harsh words, and she slapped me. The video had gone viral, splashed across every tabloid.

Now, seeing it on Joachim’s phone, the embarrassment came crashing back.

I exhaled, a wave of shame and relief flooding me—shame because the video had spread like wildfire, relief because he hadn’t discovered that I was the Woodsman.

And would I stop after almost getting caught?

Hell no.

He gave me a look that said a thousand words, most of them judgmental. The kind that screamed, Is this really how you want to live your life?

“Well, well. What’s this?” he drawled. “The famous celebrity agent herself.” His words dripped with mock amusement.

All my life, I had never felt so humiliated.

Damn Tessa Miller. Damn the agency. And damn this wicked man pretending to be my date.

I couldn’t stop the sharp retort that slipped out. “Oh, spare me, Mr. Knight.”

He raised a brow, amused.

“That was none of your business,” I said, crossing my arms. “You have no right to poke your nose into my private life.”

His smirk deepened. “Private life, indeed. You’re already trending with that video. Maybe you should quit your job and focus on starting more scandals. Who knows? One might land you in trouble and you’ll come running to me for help.”

I glared at him. “I’d rather live in the desert than accept your help.”

“If I die today,” I said, my voice trembling, “there’s one thing I’ll always regret—even in my next life.”

He tilted his head, grinning. “And what’s that?”

“Ever meeting you.” I grabbed my serviette, threw it at his face, and before he could react, I gulped down both glasses of wine and ran

out.

Behind me, I could feel his gaze following, heavy, burning — like the devil himself had just decided that my soul was already his.