Zara Everleigh had three golden rules in life:
1. No drama.
2. No effort.
3. No pants after 6 p.m.
And yet here she was—fully dressed, in public, and thirty seconds away from starring in a scandal.
To be fair, she hadn't planned any of it. All she wanted was taro milk tea.
It had been a long, lazy kind of day. The kind where time melted into pillows and her cat, Soba, used her as a mattress. The sun had begun to set when she finally dragged herself out of bed and realized the fridge was tragically empty.
Bubble tea. That was the only thing worth moving for.
So she threw on a hoodie that could fit two people, pajama shorts, and her loyal pink bunny slippers. No makeup. No energy. No expectations.
The corner minimart two blocks down was her haven. It had exactly the brand she liked: strong, creamy, and generously loaded with chewy boba. She marched down the sidewalk like a woman on a mission—or more accurately, a sloth chasing caffeine.
Zara barely noticed the sleek black car parked by the curb. Nor the man who exited it in a rush, suit jacket flapping behind him.
She only noticed when he almost slammed into her at the entrance.
"Watch it," she mumbled, stepping back instinctively.
"Sorry," the man replied, distracted, glancing over his shoulder.
Zara took one look and immediately decided: corporate, rich, stressed—not my problem.
She stepped inside, heading straight for the refrigerated drinks.
That's when she heard it.
The chaos.
First, the murmur of voices. Then footsteps. Then—
Flash. Flash. FLASH.
She turned just in time to see the same man from outside—now cornered between a display of chips and the freezer section—looking absolutely hunted.
A swarm of people with cameras and microphones flooded the tiny store.
"Mr. Lancaster! Are the rumors true?"
"Who's the woman seen at your condo last night?"
"Is it your fiancée? Or someone new?!"
Zara froze, fingers still reaching for her taro milk tea.
Oh no.
She knew that name.
Noah Lancaster. CEO of Lancaster Group. Billionaire. Recently single. A walking headline.
And now, apparently, hiding in the same minimart as her.
Their eyes met across the aisle.
His: dark, panicked, desperate.
Hers: flat, tired, mildly annoyed.
He mouthed, "Help me."
Zara blinked slowly. Then looked around.
The paparazzi were closing in. People were starting to whisper. Phones were recording.
Ugh.
She was wearing slippers.
She sighed.
And then did something she would 100% regret later.
She walked straight to him, grabbed his arm, and announced loudly:
"Can you all stop? He's with me."
Silence hit the minimart like a brick.
No one moved.
Zara pulled him closer, arm linked in his, like they'd been dating for years instead of sharing oxygen for twenty seconds. "We're just here to buy snacks. Can you not?"
Flash. Flash. Flash.
Someone gasped.
The cashier ducked.
The man—Noah—stared at her like she had three heads. "What are you—"
"Shh," she hissed. "I didn't rescue you for a conversation."
She tugged him along toward the back of the store.
He followed, still dazed. "Why are you helping me?"
"Because I need my milk tea and you're blocking the fridge."
Zara opened the door, grabbed two bottles—just in case—and turned to him with a straight face. "If I'm gonna be fake-dating a billionaire, I deserve at least two."
Noah opened his mouth, then closed it again.
She tossed him a spare black mask from her hoodie pocket. "Put that on. Paparazzi love lips."
He obeyed, oddly quiet for someone supposedly in charge of thousands of employees.
They paid—Zara doing the talking, Noah pretending to browse gum—and exited through the side alley.
Once safely away, Noah finally exhaled.
"...Thank you."
Zara sipped her drink. "You're welcome."
He looked at her like he was still processing. "Do you… know who I am?"
"I know you're rich, famous, and apparently bad at hiding."
He chuckled—just a little. "Most people would've sold the moment to the tabloids."
"I'm not most people." She took another sip. "Also, I was wearing bunny slippers. You think I want that on national TV?"
He actually smiled. "Fair point."
Zara pointed at him with her straw. "So next time you run from a scandal, maybe don't crash into a civilian."
"I'll keep that in mind," he said, amused.
Then silence stretched between them—comfortable, strange.
Zara tilted her head. "You're not gonna ask for my number so you can 'thank me properly,' are you?"
"No," Noah replied. "But I might ask for your name."
She considered for a second.
Then smirked. "Zara. Zara Everleigh."
His eyes flickered, as if the name meant something.
But he only said, "Nice to meet you, Zara."
And with that, they went their separate ways.
At least, that was the plan.
Until the next morning… when Zara woke up to her face on the news.
"MYSTERY WOMAN: CEO NOAH LANCASTER'S SECRET GIRLFRIEND?"
She choked on her milk tea.
Soba the cat stared at her in judgment.
Zara sighed into her blanket.
"Why does this stuff only happen when I wear slippers?"