Restless, Emily was overwhelmed by the whirlwind of emotions crashing through her, but she had no time to make sense of them.
Charles's presence alone was intoxicating, his charisma utterly bewitching, an irresistible force that pulled her in.
The car door shut with a soft tick, locking automatically.
She stiffened.
Her breath hitched as she looked at him again, disbelief flickering in her wide eyes. Enthusiasm warred with confusion, battling in the depths of her chest.
Was this real?
Her gaze lingered on his impossibly gorgeous face, as if she feared he might vanish, that this moment was nothing more than a cruel illusion.
The luxurious car smelled of fresh air and crisp cologne, confirming that she was truly inside it.
That realization sent her mind spiraling.
What had she just done?
She had entered a man's car.
A stranger's car.
What if this wasn't Charles?
What if he was the creep? The pervert she had just mocked through text?
Cold dread crawled up her spine.
Had he come to prove her wrong? Teach her a lesson?
Her insult had been ruthless, brutally mocking his manhood, calling him a "cutie patootie" out of sheer irritation.
What if she had poked the wrong beast?
Panic surged, sweat dampening her palms.
'Oh no!'
'Come to your senses, Emily!'
She hastily cupped her burning cheeks, pressing them firmly as she inhaled deeply, attempting to stabilize herself.
Eyes squeezed shut, she counted down—three… two… one…
Then she opened them.
Charles was still there.
She did it again.
Still there.
She pressed her cheeks even harder the third time, almost bruising her jaw, before daring to look once more.
Charles hadn't moved.
He sat there, silent, elegant, his watchful eyes fixed on her, observing every absurd motion she made.
Real.
He was real.
And he was inside his sports car with her.
'Gosh!'
He was really Charles Adam.
The realization struck her like a bolt of lightning.
Heat rushed to her face, her cheeks flushing a deep crimson.
Nervous energy surged through her, her pulse hammering wildly as she struggled to regain composure.
She had to act normal.
Be normal.
At her prettiest, she flashed him a bright smile, her eyes blinking adorably before she lifted her hand in a small, cute wave.
"Hi..." she attempted, voice trembling slightly.
She paused, hesitating, struggling against the overwhelming emotions suffocating her.
Deep breath.
Another attempt.
"I... I'm Emily… Emily Greyson," she managed, words spilling out unsteadily, her heartbeat erratic.
Still unsatisfied, she pressed forward, gathering her courage.
"I am your number one fan."
Her eyes sparkled with pure excitement, a giggle escaping her lips.
She couldn't hold back the affection she felt for him—it seeped into every glance, every gesture. She didn't want to hide it.
Charles remained still, regal in his black high-neck shirt and tailored coat, looking effortlessly striking without even trying.
Then…
A smirk.
A slow, meaningful one.
His eyes locked onto hers, deep and unreadable.
"And I'm…" he began, voice smooth, deliberate.
He paused, letting the silence stretch, teasing, baiting.
Then the smirk widened ever so slightly.
"…the pervert."
His words sent a jolt straight through her chest.
Emily's breath hitched.
Her pulse spiked.
Heat crawled up her skin.
EARLIER - MORNING
The heat was merciless that morning in Nixon City, the summer sun blazing down as if competing with the fiery passion of thousands of screaming fans. Their voices rose in a deafening chorus, shrieks, chants, declarations of unwavering devotion, all aimed at one man. One legend. One superstar.
Charles Adam.
He wasn't just famous. He was a phenomenon. The most handsome, the sexiest, the most sought-after bachelor in the universe. His irresistible charm knew no bounds, captivating everyone—women of all ages, men who admired him, and the entire LGBTQ community who adored him. To them, he was perfection personified.
With just one photo, the internet crumbled beneath the weight of his fandom. A simple shot, Charles casually playing golf, dressed in a fitted white sports shirt that highlighted every toned muscle beneath, was enough to drive millions into hysteria. His followers skyrocketed to 500 million. His name dominated search engines. His mere existence shattered records.
[Oh gosh! This guy! I want him to be my husband so bad!]
[Come to me! I will be your forever slave. I will do everything you want!]
[Finally, I find my baby boy! Such a pretty boy! Take my virginity, please!!!]
[I am willing to break up with my boyfriend for you!]
[Your body is so tempting! Can I touch it, please? I can go to heaven if I can!"]
[Just one night, please. I can be your secret lover, and I promise no one will know about our affair. I will be an obedient lover.]
[I love you, Charles Adam!]
[I can die if you give me a baby, please!]
[You are the only man I will fall for! I am super-duper in love with you!]
Desperate pleas flooded social media, fueling the legend of Charles Adam even further.
At that time, the internet had gone into chaos over a single photograph.
Charles Adam, dressed in nothing but a plain-fitted white sports shirt and pants, was playing golf with his friends.
No extravagant styling. No overly dramatic poses. Just Charles, effortlessly commanding attention with his natural charisma.
His toned muscles pressed against the fitted fabric, the outline of his physique so distinct that it sent his fans into a frenzy.
Within hours, the image spread like wildfire.
The next day, headlines blazed: Diamond Trendline's sportswear collection—sold out.
It was the most expensive sportswear in the city, a brand recognized worldwide, yet after Charles was spotted wearing it, it vanished from shelves overnight.
And the most ironic part?
He hadn't even meant to endorse it.
The paparazzi had captured him unknowingly, mid-swing with a golf club, striking a perfect pose as he launched the ball into the sky. His expression was calm, intensely focused, exuding a cool confidence that ignited admiration.
Soon, his image adorned giant billboards across the city. Every street corner, every towering screen... his face was everywhere.
And today, Nixon Square overflowed with fans, desperate to catch a glimpse of the most famous heartthrob in the country.
The city was celebrating its Charter Anniversary, but no one had gathered for politics.
The mayor knew it.
He needed numbers, engagement, and he required Charles Adam.
So, he took advantage of the opportunity, aligning his campaign with the superstar's brief visit.
Even if Charles would only grant them three minutes of his time through his manager, the mayor seized it. A moment with Charles was better than nothing.
'Arrogant.'
The mayor muttered the word inwardly, though he dared not say it aloud.
He had no power over Charles Adam.
Not when he belonged to the Adams.
Not when his family ruled an empire worth billions, controlling industries that dictated the country's economy... luxury hotels, malls, airlines, shipping companies, oil, media, fashion, and medical institutions.
If Master Frederick Adam hadn't placed him in this position, he would never have become the city's mayor.
He owed the Adams everything.
And that was a debt he had no intention of repaying through defiance.
Even the slightest misstep against Charles could end his career in an instant.
A bead of sweat trickled down the mayor's temple.
He exhaled, signaling his secretary to begin the program.
And then...
A deafening roar erupted from the crowd.
"I LOVE YOU, CHARLES ADAM! I LOVE YOU, MY DARLING SUPERSTAR!"
Among the screaming sea of devoted fans stood one woman whose voice rose above the rest.
Emily Greyson.